Four Walls May Make a House But It Takes Hart To Make a Holmes
by C0ldSteel
Summary: Sherwood/Torchlock :p The horniest man in the universe plays opposite the least interested man in the universe. Jack never asked for this. Watson never dreamed this was possible. Rated M for heavy lemon.
1. Abduction

_Bella The Strange posted the first chapter of a fic on the FB group for The Magic of Torchwood. She said that she was going to write something long and epic, but had brain freeze after the first chapter. Since she wasn't going to write it, she posted the chapter, saying that it could be freely used as a prompt._  
_I am going to continue this story myself and see where it takes me._  
_I've made a few minor changes like punctuation, British to American English, italics instead of all-caps and one correction: John Hart's sword (according to an interview) is from Korea, and is not a Samurai sword. I probably wouldn't know the difference, but Sherlock would. ;) Other than that, the first chapter is all Bella The Strange. My writing will begin in chapter 2.  
_

* * *

Chapter 1: Abduction

x x x

While it was the generally accepted behavior of normal individuals to enter a state of blind panic when confronted with a gun-wielding stranger, Sherlock's first reaction was somewhat less melodramatic.

He had been walking back to his flat in Baker Street, having once more been refused by every taxi along the way. This may have had something to do with the fact he was carrying an object which strongly resembled—but to the _educated _eye was quite obviously not in fact—a severed human arm.

Could people really not tell that it was plastic? That the 'blood' was quite clearly corn syrup and food coloring?

His assailant was a man in his late forties, though he hid it well. Most men don't know how to wear makeup that subtly, it didn't even streak. Short dark hair, which had at some point within the last month been dyed blond but was now almost completely grown out, a small scar on his left eyebrow caused by a fine sharp object. Most likely a razor, but a well-sharpened dagger or sword wasn't entirely out of the question. The angle allowed for the possibility that it could even have been artfully self-inflicted.

The gun itself was fascinating, in spite of being shoved right into Sherlock's face the moment the man approached him. It was definitely a custom model, though he couldn't quite place the style. Close to military, but definitely not in fact so. The very reason Sherlock was not currently expressing—even though he rarely did feel—fear, was that the safety was on. And the man knew it. He held his finger over the safety latch, but had not actually used it just yet.

Sherlock reserved judgement for the time being on the man's clothes. That would require thought, and as there was quite clearly a gun being aimed at his forehead it would be best for now to react on instinct. He dropped the severed arm and sharply pushed the gun aside, grabbing the man's wrist firmly with both hands and twisting hard. Clearly not hard enough, as he failed to let go of the weapon.

It took a moment for Sherlock to figure out just why the man's eyes dilated. It could have been fear, but that wasn't altogether likely as there was no sign of anyone pursuing him, and Sherlock himself had reacted out of self-defense rather than aggression. It could have been a thrill of the chase, but while it was true that the man had been running and was slightly out of breath, he still looked otherwise quite calm.

No, the so-called 'light' in his eyes was most likely the first sign of arousal. This was confirmed by the way the eyes flickered down over Sherlock's body briefly before returning to his face.

"You're in my way." the man said with a blatantly forced and non-region-specific English accent.

"You could have asked me to move."

"I'm in a bit of a hurry." There was something in the intonation that implied a quote, and deep amusement. Sherlock quickly searched his mind for any reference that may apply, and came up with only one. The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Sweet Transvestite. He would never forgive Lestrade for that night.

"Well I wouldn't want to be any worry." he retorted coldly, stepping aside and twisting once more at the man's wrist, this time succeeding in pulling the gun away from him.

The stranger leered at him, stepping back slightly. Watching him in a more evaluating eye now.

Sherlock got a better look at the clothes, and wondered briefly at the man's sanity. Faux military, and dramatically mismatched. The boots were nineteenth century Italian equestrian. Bog-standard blue-jeans that had seen better days. A classic—and either an amazingly well maintained antique or a highly skilled replica—western gunslinger's belt, set for two pistols, the right hand of which was still holstered. An elaborate Korean sword slung from the right hand side of the belt. A dirty undershirt best denoted as a 'wife-beater', over which was perhaps the poorest impersonation of Napoleonic military jacket that Sherlock had ever seen... and he'd been to the British History Museum.

There were two sharp burn marks on the undershirt as well, the cause of which wasn't entirely logical to Sherlock's analysis... and no evidence of injury to the man himself. Other marks of wear and tear on the clothing implied it had seen combat, and the man was clearly comfortable displaying that fact.

"You never saw me." the stranger informed Sherlock coldly. It was an order, but not one Sherlock had ever been comfortable pretending to comprehend.

"Of course I saw you. You ran into me and pointed a gun in my face."

"I'll be having that back, now." the man added, holding his hand out as if expecting immediate compliance.

Sherlock's pride made him do precisely the opposite, "Only if you tell me where you're going." He sneered slightly, "I can tell where you've been."

"Oh, is that so?" the man took a step closer, trying to be intimidating, and on an ordinary person he would undoubtedly have succeeded. "You don't know anything about me."

Sherlock laughed, that damned pride once more getting the better of him, as he had to make it perfectly clear that this was incorrect. "I know you're left-handed. A craven attention seeker, most probably an only child. Obsessive military interest - no, sorry, military _fetish_. You're an experienced but not infallible fighter, in brawls, swordplay, and ranged weapons, with a strong preference for the former. Most likely a criminal, as no law-abiding citizen would simply roam around the streets of London kitted out for World War Three. And you're also not heterosexual... wouldn't rule out bisexual, though."

"You say you can tell I'm an experienced fighter... but you're still standing up to me." the man pointed out, relatively unperturbed by Sherlock's usually somewhat off-putting rant.

Sherlock simply smiled, "I am infallible."

"That so?" It wasn't a question of whether or not he told the truth. It was a question of _why _he believed it.

"Now, if you're going to get all confrontational about it, why would I want to tell you in advance how I would win in a fight?"

To most _ordinary _people, it would have come with no warning, but the man's eyes broadcast the attack a second before his left fist swung at Sherlock's face. He ducked, striking quickly with a blow to the man's abdomen, before turning and kicking out his right leg. The man stumbled forwards, winded, and as Sherlock stood up straight again, he took the opportunity to hit his assailant again where the neck meets the shoulder, driving him down to his knees. And then he pulled the gun, pointing it at the man's head.

"I really wasn't looking for a fight." he pointed out coolly, to his defeated opponent.

The man rubbed his shoulder and pulled himself to his feet somewhat more quickly than Sherlock had anticipated, "You're good. I like you."

"If you really want to impress me, you'll show some semblance of intelligence now, and either leave, or I suppose much less likely turn yourself over to the authorities."

The man snorted, laughing, "I'll be having my gun back. Then I'll leave."

Sherlock analyzed the words carefully. It sounded honest, and only one man had ever been able to lie to him convincingly before, so he still trusted this judgement. He checked the gun and quickly found the catch to unload the ammunition cartridge, did so, then handed the two separate parts back to the man.

The man holstered the now harmless weapon, and put the ammunition in a pocket hidden in the lining of a jacket based on a design that did not have pockets.  
"I'm sorry." he said bluntly, but it didn't quite sound right. It sounded like he was apologizing for something he was going to do, rather than what he had already done. Unfortunately, the moment it took to process this was also all it took for the man to lunge at him.

He hit the ground with some force, the stranger on top of him. He struggled against the greater weight and physical force for only a second before something unexpected happened.

He wasn't entirely sure if it was a blinding light or a blow to the head. His best guess suggested both. However, the next thing he knew he was somewhere else. In precisely the same position, with the man still holding him down as if no time had passed... but very much in a new location.

He blinked against the sparks that flickered across his vision. Most people called it seeing stars, but he very much disagreed with that assessment. Stars were single specs, usually of white or yellow light. These were minute streaks of rainbow-colored light, and always had been such.

It had been dark a moment ago, and now it was twilight. Sunset, if the sky was any indication. How had it gone from late night sunset so quickly?

Perhaps he wasn't seeing clearly and it was actually sunrise?

The stranger stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet as well. "First time's always the worst," he offered in a tone that at once feigned apology and yet was entirely unrepentant.

There was also some insinuation of ulterior meaning there, and Sherlock was certainly not oblivious as he often pretended to be for the sake of a less infuriating life.

He scanned the area with growing confusion. He must have been out for some time, brought here, and then purposefully woken in the same position as he had been rendered unconscious. Whoever did it had excellent attention to detail. Every crease of his assailant's clothing, the stray strands of hair, all in perfect alignment to the last moment before his head must logically have hit the pavement.

Unrealistically accurate. Nobody was that good. There had to be another explanation.

And he did not know this neighborhood.

"Wondering where we are?" the stranger asked, smirking in a manner deliberately designed to infuriate.

"It's not a location I'm familiar with, no." Sherlock conceded. He would not admit to not being able to figure out how they got there, if he could help it.

"We're in the same place." the stranger told him, watching his reaction perhaps a touch too carefully.

Sherlock sneered at this very suggestion, "Of course we're not. This street is completely different from—"

"We're _not _in the same _time_." the man interrupted.

Now that managed to illicit genuine surprise from Sherlock, and the smugness of his assailant made it clear this had shown on his face. He recovered quickly, "Well of course not. It's sunset now, and you accosted me shortly before midnight. I must have been out for some time for you to have brought me here."

"The travel was instantaneous." the man said, looking entirely too knowing and amused for Sherlock's liking.

"You're implying time-travel is possible."

"You think it isn't?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment, "Well, most leading scientific researchers consider it an impossibility. But most leading scientific researchers aren't me, and generally speaking I am the more intelligent by a significant margin. Theoretically, there are several ways it _could _be possible, but none of them are reasonably provable with the technology available."

"In your time."

"In the twenty-first century. Yes." he hedged carefully. The man still wasn't giving any of the tells of a lie. It was becoming unnerving.

The man grinned broadly, and gestured expansively to the street around them, "Welcome to the fifty-first century, Sherlock Holmes." So he had been looking for Sherlock, specifically. Either the entire confrontation had been a ruse and/or a test, or the man had failed to recognize him until he had given in to his ego and gone on what John usually called 'one of his rants'.

Sherlock stared at him, reluctant to accept the explanation of time travel, and certainly not without proof. Even if it were true he was still unimpressed. "I don't believe I caught _your _name?"

"You can call me John Hart."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this then rolled his eyes in some exasperation, "It's not your name." he said with absolute certainty, and he would admit some amusement, "But I can call you it."

* * *

_I'll continue soon. ^^ Suggestions are welcome, but I have a pretty good idea where I'm going.  
_


	2. Amnesia

_This is my first time writing Sherlock. Critique is fine if you're nice._

* * *

Chapter 2: Amnesia

X X X

Hart rubbed his hands with an imitation of glee. "Good. So, this is Earth in the fifty-first century. What you think?"

Sherlock looked around. The street beneath him was smoother than any he had ever seen. It didn't give to his feet, but when he took a few steps, he could hear a faint echo. The surface was dark like black ice. "The street is paved with a metal alloy which is stronger than steel for its thickness, and does not rust or reflect much light. It covers an elaborate subway system, much like the London Underground... and I suppose you're about to tell me that it _is_ the London Underground."

"Correct," Hart said, smirking. "It's a bit different from in your day, though."

Sherlock looked up to see something that dragged images from the original Star Wars movie to the forefront of his mind. It was a vehicle which seemed to float in the air rather than sit on wheels. "Hovercraft?"

"Oh, we're _so_ over the hovercraft. Very last-millennium. This is anti-grav at its finest."

"There's no such thing as anti-gravity."

"Says the man looking at proof of it. It's not a nightmare that'll just go away if you—"

"A much more believable design is an intensely polarized magnet to oppose the magnetism of the earth."

Hart grinned. "If you want to get technical, yes. It's more anti-magnetism than anti-gravity. I guess this smarty-pants deduction proves that you are indeed one of the best minds of historical London. Do you believe yet that you're not in the twenty-first century anymore?"

"What if I'm not?" Sherlock challenged. "What does it matter if I believe it or not? That isn't why you brought me here."

"Mm, not entirely, no. Come on; let's walk for a bit. Even though it's not my primary goal, getting you familiar with ideas like time travel is important."

Knowing that for now he was at Hart's mercy, Sherlock fell into step beside his abductor. "Assuming we did just time travel, what year is it?"

"It's fifty ninety-nine. Just after the fall of the Time Agency. I think they'll revive it, but not this century, and probably not the next."

_Time Agency._ Sherlock logged the name away. "And why did you bring me to this particular year?"

"Because it's relatively safe. It's not until fifty-one oh-one that the Federation decided to dispose of all the former time agents. I still don't know if there are any others living—other than me and Jack, of course."

"Why would they kill them?"

"Oh, you know how it is—your elite organization goes under, suddenly you start wondering what those elite members are doing, and what they _could_ do, and what they know, and if they know _too much,_ and eventually you decide it's safer to do a little clean-up job now than a big one later."

Sherlock nodded. _He has no trouble feeding me information, and he doesn't seem to be lying. Either he's confident that I'm going to help him, or he doesn't think I'll be able to use this information against him. Or both. Best to watch out for him deciding to do one of these "little clean-up" jobs himself._

His thoughts came to a screeching halt when they rounded the corner. The buildings were all wrong. The sounds were all wrong. The _people _were all wrong... _Are those even "people"?_

"And now what do you think?" Hart prompted.

"It's... rather a lot to take in." It was a rare thing indeed for Sherlock to be at a loss for words. He didn't know where to look first, how to begin describing what he was seeing. Why compare any single thing to its counterpart from his normal life when _everything_ was so completely different? "Either you've told me the truth and I have time traveled... or I fell asleep with too many nicotine patches on."

Hart laughed. "Delightful. Either way, this is going to be the greatest adventure you've had. So, dream or not, you should embrace it, eh?"

At last, the strange man was talking sense. "That would seem to be a sensible attitude."

"Glad you agree." Hart stepped up to a stationary anti-grav car and pressed his palm to the driver's side window. The door hissed open. "This is my ride. Hop in."

Sherlock went around to the other side and the passenger door opened for him. The seat was very comfortable.

"Sorry we left your arm behind."

"If this is a dream, it's of no importance. And if it's not... it was only a prop, after all. It can be replaced."

"Oh, and I thought it was real," Hart said with obvious sarcasm.

_I know he's seen combat-he probably knows what a real severed arm looks like._

Almost before he realized it, the vehicle was moving. It glided over the smooth metal street with hardly a sound.

"Where are we going?"

"Out of the city. Somewhere quiet and inexpensive."

"You don't live here, then."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. No one will be looking for me here."

"The Time Agency isn't based in London, then."

"The Time Agency isn't based _on Earth."_

Time travel, space travel... in this dream, or in this century, there seemed to be no boundaries. _If this is a dream,_ Sherlock decided, _I hope to God it lasts a long, long time, and I remember every detail upon waking._

_X X X  
_

"There you are!"

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. _It shouldn't be light. Light is bad. Go away._

"Where the hell _were _you yesterday? I tried to call you over and over..."

Sherlock stopped listening to John and fished in his pocket for his phone. Nineteen text messages.

"...searched everywhere, even called LeStrade. I found that bloody arm of yours and thought something terrible must have happened. Thought you'd been kidnapped or something. I nearly called Mycroft."

"Arm?"

"Yes, that stupid prop arm that you were going to try to use to get Carmichael to confess. Turns out you didn't need it, by the way—they found a new witness that led to more physical evidence first thing this morning, so they're charging him."

"Prop arm." Sherlock opened his first text message. _"On my way home. Need anything?"_ "Stupid prop arm to get a confession... yes, that might work."

"You're not listening! I said they got him. They're satisfied he did it, they've booked him and charged him."

Second text message: _"Thought u'd be home. Where r u now?"_ "Good for them. Seems all they needed this time around was a nudge in the right direction. LeStrade isn't so useless as he pretends."

"So, where _were _you?"

Third text message: _"Srsly, where r u?"_ "I'm trying to figure that out. Give me a moment."

Fourth text Message: _"If u don't want me along ok but where #ell r u?"_

"You don't know where you were?"

Fifth message: _"Is anything wrong?"_

"Sherlock?"

Sixth message: _"r u ok?"_

Seventh message: _"At least tell if u'll B home 4 sup"_

"Not yet. Quiet, please."

Eighth message: _"Starting w/out u."_

Ninth message: _"Its getting cold."_

Tenth message: _"r u in trouble?"_

Eleventh message: _"LeStrade doesn't know where u r. I'm worried."_

Twelfth message: _"Tell me SOMETHING damit"_

Thirteenth message: "_Do u need help?"_

Fourteenth message: _"If u just forgot to charge ur phone I'll kill u."_

Fifteenth message: _"Found that arm... what's going on?"_

Sixteenth message: _"Back 221. Ansr."_

Seventeenth message: _"It's late. What devil u doing?"_

Eighteenth message: _"Going 2 bed. Wake when u get home."_

Nineteenth message: _"Don't worry, I'll be in touch. We should do lunch. ~JH"_

Sherlock frowned. _J. H. ? Who has those initials...?_ He sprang up off the couch and nearly toppled over immediately.

"Figured it out?" John asked impatiently.

"Not yet. Hidden number... Where's the laptop..." He crossed the room to sit at the table where his laptop sat open. He typed his password quickly and opened his email. _It's not a contact saved in my phone. Maybe someone I've gotten email from..._

But the only J. H. in his address book was no one that would invite him to lunch. Or tell him not to worry. Or have an explanation for his not remembering the last twelve-plus hours.

"John, do you know anyone with the initials J. H.?"

"J. H." John frowned. "Probably. I don't know."

"Check your phone."

John sighed, but he complied immediately. His curiosity obviously far outweighed his exasperation. "Um... Nope. Only J. H. I've got is a woman who doesn't know you, much less have your number."

"Strange."

"Yup. You ever going to explain...?"

"I do remember thinking of how to get Carmichael to confess, but it's all very blurry. I don't remember formulating a solid plan. Though a severed body part does seem like the logical way..."

"Oh, it does, does it? Have I ever told you that you need psychiatric help?"

"And you say I'd gotten an arm."

"Yes. That's what you told me. You were going to get an arm, doctor it up to look freshly detached and scare him with it or something. I said I didn't want to be in on it, you said it was a one-man job anyway, we went our separate ways, and then... you tell me?"

"Fascinating. Give me a bit of time to think."

"I've been doing that."

"No, John. You've been hovering. Is the paper here?"

"I'll go have a look."

Sherlock returned to the couch and concentrated. _I'm in the same clothes I was wearing yesterday. Hardly much of a clue—I often sleep in my clothes. I'd gotten a prop arm and probably bloodied it up to use to scare Carmichael into a confession._ He checked his hands. _No traces of food coloring or other fake blood ingredients... perhaps I washed up carefully after._

The door opened and closed.

"Where did you find it?"

"On the step, like always."

"The arm. Last night. Where did you find it?"

"Oh... um. On Crispin Street, I think. It's in your room now."

Sherlock sprang up again and hurried to his room as John called after him, "Nothing much in the paper—there'll be a story about the arrest in the evening edition, I expect."

_Plastic arm in a real sleeve, fake blood... corn syrup and food coloring. Very simple. Well-dried now; somewhat sticky in places._

"John," Sherlock called, "where did I mix up the fake blood?"

"Here, I think. I wasn't in."

Back downstairs, to the kitchen. Yes, there was a bowl in the sink that held pink water. "And when was that?"

"After lunch, I think."

"Did I have the arm yet?"

"Don't think so."

"So I mixed the blood before acquiring the arm. I would have needed a bottle or something..." His eyes moved to the shelf. "There was an old vanilla extract bottle there—it's gone now. So, where would I go to find an arm?"

Back to the laptop. Google... In his browsing history was the search "arm prop" under Google's "shopping" category. Following highlighted links, Sherlock found a local costume shop. "I paid eight pounds for this thing?!"

"Sure you went to that shop?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's starting to give me a severe case of déjà vu. I don't actually remember yet, but I remember remembering." He paused. "I went down to the shop. I was closer to St. Bartholomew's so I took it there. Took an old shirt out of the lost and found and fitted the sleeve. Bloodied it up. Found out Carmichael had taken a train out of town, but I knew he'd be back late that night. So I headed home, planning to finish the job when he returned. But on my way home..."

"Yes?" John prompted.

Sherlock shook his head. "Something happened. I don't know what. I'm going back to Crispin Street."

"Leaving the arm?"

"I dropped it last time—obviously, it wasn't any help in whatever situation arose."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Sherlock hesitated. His instinct was to go alone. But he had gone alone last time and lost some twelve hours of memory. _It feels like more than twelve hours._ "If you wish, but I'm leaving now."

"Let me get proper clothes on at least."

"Honestly, how many times have we talked about priorities? What difference does it make if you're in your pajamas?"

John rolled his eyes. "It makes a difference. It makes... a difference."

X X X

Sherlock went over every inch of the pavement around the area John indicated. "It does feel familiar," he said slowly. "You're sure it was just here?"

"Well, it was dark. I could be mistaken. But it was this street."

Sherlock walked up and down the sidewalk again. _Nothing to go on. Not a smoking gun, not a bloody footprint, nothing._ He looked up at the passing traffic and then at the surrounding buildings. "Something's wrong."

"How do you mean?"

"Wrong, wrong, wrong." He turned on his heel 360 degrees. "It's all wrong, but I can't begin to say why." He took a few steps, testing the sidewalk under his feet.

"Perhaps it's the time of day," John suggested. "Your number stopped dialing after it got dark. It's morning now... bound to look different."

"The time of day." Sherlock looked around again. "Of course. It was sunset."

"No, I just told you. It was after dark when you went MIA."

Sherlock shook his head. "That's what's wrong. It's something about the time. I'm certain of it. Not just that it was sunset when it was supposed to be night, but it was the wrong..." He stopped himself. He couldn't say "it was the wrong year." Watson already thought his sanity was questionable. "The ground, the buildings, everything's wrong."

"What do you mean by that?"

Something else suddenly sprang into Sherlock's mind: a hazy figure. "There was a man... a man in a military coat. He had a gun."

John's eyes widened. "Who was it?"

"I don't know. I'd never met him before. It's coming back, though. He wasn't an ordinary highwayman. He was looking for me in particular. He wanted me for something. Had nothing to do with Carmichael. He was average height... unremarkable hair... middle aged..."

"Just average all around, eh?"

"He had more than a gun—a sword, I think. No, two guns and a sword. And he fancied me."

"Are you sure this is amnesia wearing off and not just you remembering your latest bizarre dream?" John asked skeptically.

"It was very dreamlike," Sherlock remembered. "I remember wondering if it was a dream, but I couldn't wake from it. I'm certain it was real."

John sighed and folded his arms. "So, we're looking for a middle aged, average height man in a military coat, carrying two guns and a sword—and who fancies you." He turned to walk away with an ironic laugh, but halted abruptly when he ran into a middle aged, average height man in a military coat, carrying two guns and a sword.

"Ask and you shall receive," the stranger said, smiling broadly.

* * *

_That's all for now, folks. Let me know what you think. ^^  
_


	3. Appraisal

_Thanks so much for the reviews! After the first day or two I didn't think it was going to draw much of a following. Then I saw that it suddenly had four reviews. ^^ Bella, I'm especially glad to see you liked my first chapter. Hope you enjoy what else I come up with._

_I decided to set this between the Torchwood episodes Exit Wounds and Children of Earth 1. If you haven't seen Exit Wounds... geez, just go watch it now.  
_

* * *

Chapter 3: Appraisal

x x x

"Okay," John said slowly, "I'm willing to accept the theory that you weren't dreaming... for now."

"J. H.?" Sherlock asked the stranger.

"Are you remembering?" he asked. "Or did pure sleuthing bring you here?"

"A bit of both." Sherlock could see that the stranger was calm and very confident. He was used to being in charge, and being outnumbered two to one posed no threat at all. Best not to challenge him until he remembered more.

"It's John Hart."

The name clicked into place with the image of the man. More bits and pieces were coming back. Sherlock scrambled to keep up.

"You did very well," Hart went on. "I expected to get here well before you. It's not really lunch time yet. But that just means we can pick out someplace fancy where there's a long wait." He flashed a pleasant smile.

"Are you paying?" asked John. Then he added, "Wait, who are you?"

"Finally, you're starting to get your priorities straight," Sherlock muttered.

"Certainly, I'm paying," said Hart. "Only I didn't count on an extra, so supposing you tell me who you are first?"

"Captain Hart, this is John Watson. John, meet John Hart."

Hart smiled again. "You remembered I'm a captain." Then he shook John's hand. "And you're Sherlock's famous associate."

"Flatmate," John said.

"Oh, of course. Nothing more."

"Nothing less," Sherlock said in a conclusive tone. "If we're going to have lunch, I know a place near here."

"Lead on."

X X X

Once their orders were placed and Hart was tasting the house's special beer, Sherlock spent no more time beating about the bush.

"How long has it been since I've seen you?"

Hart glanced at a clock on the wall. "Oh, ten hours or so."

"And how long since you've seen me?"

"About two days."

John blinked, an unmistakable look of confusion on his face. "Wait, what did you just say?"

"He's not my problem," Hart told Sherlock. "It doesn't matter to me whether you keep him up to speed or not, but it can't go further than him. And I don't want him slowing us down."

Sherlock nodded. "John, keep up or shut up."

"Wha—"

"I still can't remember exactly what we did... something in the future. Fifty-first century?"

"Yes," Hart confirmed. "I was hoping it would all come back to you when you saw me."

"A lot of it did..."

"Perhaps if I take you back to that time, it'll help?"

"I think it would. What caused the amnesia?"

"Mixture of knock-out drops and amnesia tonic. Jack thought I'd try to get you out of it somehow, so he watched your drink very carefully once he'd treated it. It was his own he should have been watching."

"You gave him a taste of his own medicine?"

"That's right. He and the others have lost all memory of meeting you. I wiped the CCTV feed as well. They know they're missing a day, but they don't know why."

"Am I missing twenty-four hours as well?"

"No, you're missing forty-eight."

"Hang on," John said, finding his voice again. "Sherlock was only missing for one night..."

Sherlock glared at him. "What did I just tell you?"

John sighed and rested his chin on his hands, elbows on the table. "Fine. Ignore me, then."

Hart continued. "We went to that motel where I caught you up to speed on time travel, politics, space travel, intergalactic policy, stuff like that. Told you more about the Time Agency, how it was shut down when there were only seven active agents left, how Jack had been AWOL since the Agency's heyday, how he set up an operation on Earth to defend from aliens and such. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Not yet," Sherlock replied. "But it's pulling the rope."

"I told you about how Torchwood had had a loss of staff lately and they particularly needed someone brainy, with reasonable computer and medical know-how to fill in for a while, and you were the man for the job."

"I'm not a techy or a medic."

"No, but you can fake either in a pinch."

"And this Jack sent you to get me?"

"No, I took initiative because I wanted on the team."

"I see. And I went along with this scheme of yours, did I?"

"Well, who else is going to offer you a job where you get to see space aliens and time-traveling what-nots? It makes everything else look ridiculously boring."

"And where in time is Torchwood?"

"Your own modern-day. Convenient, isn't it? It's in Cardiff, though. Bit of a commute."

"Not if I had one of those." Sherlock pointed at Hart's wrist strap.

"Ah, yes... thing is, they don't make these anymore."

"Go back in time and get one."

"Forwards. But they're only issued to time agents."

"You're a time agent; tell them you lost yours."

"Not that simple, mate. But transportation isn't your worry right now."

"True."

The food arrived. John was first to attempt to restart the conversation.

"So... what _is_ Sherlock's worry, if not transportation?"

"Something went wrong," said Sherlock. "Hart took me to Torchwood to meet the team there, and for some reason we were deemed unsatisfactory replacements for Torchwood's fallen agents."

"Exactly," said Hart. "But I know where we went wrong. We didn't sell you to them in the right way. Let's face it: they all hated you."

"By 'they all' you mean...?"

"Jack, Gwen and Ianto. They all did. Jack doesn't like not being the smartest smart-ass in the room, Gwen despises anyone with no warm people skills, and Ianto was threatened both by your head full of research and by your looks."

"My looks?"

"He and Jack are an item."

"And?"

Half of Hart's mouth shot up in a combination of surprise, delight and amusement. "And... with you around, suddenly Jack's gaze is too easily drawn away. Do you honestly not know that you're attractive?"

"That's easily explained," said John. "Most people are so distracted by his personality that they don't care about his looks. That would be a great compliment if he were a homely-but-loving person. However, as the opposite is true, it's far from complimentary, wouldn't you say?"

"I have enough difficulty understanding what attracts women to men, let alone what attracts _men_ to men," Sherlock added.

"I see. We need to work on that," said Hart.

"Why?" asked John.

Hart ignored him. "Now, I think I know how to do it this time. We need to sell you as a despairing, heart-broken, suicidal genius. The genius part you're fine at, but we definitely need to hone your angst skills."

"And that will make them more likely to hire me?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

"Oh, yes. Jack's a sucker for last-chance cases. People who have no hope. That sort of thing."

"I see. So, agents are hired not only on merit, but also out of some charitable feeling on the part of the team leader?"

"Basically. Jack doesn't feel especially charitable toward me these days, but I have taken steps to redeem myself. If we can get you into his little soft spot, we should both be good to go."

"I assume you won't allow me to join the team without you."

"That wouldn't be fair, would it?"

"Sherlock doesn't know the meaning of the word," John muttered.

X X X

"I'm only taking you," Hart told Sherlock. "No extra passengers."

John glanced from one to the other. "Taking him where?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'll handle this," he told Hart. He took John by the arm and led him down the sidewalk. "John, I know you're not going to understand what we're doing, so you're going to have to trust me. I'll be back in no time at all, and I'll text you as soon as I can."

"No time at all?" John asked with obvious skepticism.

"A day or two at most. But more likely an hour or so."

"You're sure this is safe?"

Sherlock smiled. "If I were completely sure, it wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

"Oh, you mentioned fun," John groaned. "Now I know it's serious..."

"Trust me. Everything's always worked out, right? Trust me."

John wiped a hand over his face and cleared his throat. "Right. Okay... trusting you."

Sherlock nodded. He left to go back to John's side. "Sorted."

"Good." Hart linked his arm through Sherlock's. "Hang on tight."

John stared at the two daft men... and then at the place where they had been standing. "Good god..." He ran back to the spot and turned around, looking wildly in all directions. _Where the hell did they go?_ Traffic was still going by as usual; pedestrians continued on their way. _Did no one else see them disappear?_

As soon as Sherlock saw the bizarre people, the odd-shaped skyscrapers and the pavement smooth as glass, everything came rushing back. The day he had spent with Captain John Hart, catching up on time and space travel, going to Torchwood and meeting the team...

X X X

Ianto had been the one to greet them at the front door. He had looked at them somewhat distastefully, and Sherlock guessed that this was due to the anticipation that any friend of Hart's was bound to be bad news.

"Hey, eye candy," Hart greeted him. "Where's Jack?"

Ianto glared. "In his office, everyone-izer."

_Hart considers this man attractive, which he finds annoying. He's chiefly accustomed to office work, though he has seen more dangerous work, as well as at least one very traumatic experience. He's nervous. This nervousness was stirred up by our arrival, but it stems from something else._

"Thank you." Hart led Sherlock through an area that was high on technology and low on comfortable furnishings. He described the design as "sewer chic."

A dark-haired woman with a no-nonsense look was at work at a computer. She turned an icy stare on Hart. "Back so soon, Vera?"

"Angel," Hart responded cheerfully. "You're looking more beautiful than ever."

The woman held up her left hand, flashing a ring at him. "Don't even think about it. I should say, 'Don't even think about it _again,'_ because I know you already thought about it."

_Welsh accent, married, no children yet, devoted but not above flirting._

Hart chuckled and escorted Sherlock through the door ahead of them.

Sherlock did a quick review. "Eye candy, Angel, and..."

As they entered the room, a man rose from behind his desk and folded his arms across his chest. "Captain Jack Harkness," he said in greeting. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jack, you've heard of Sherlock Holmes," Hart said.

"Sherlock who? I've heard of Sherlock Zock, that crime-solving action hero from the Poosh intergalactic TV station..."

Hart dropped his head into his hands. "No, no, no... that's a fictionalization of the man you see before you here. Sherlock Holmes. The man from twenty-first century London... You _never_ paid attention in century briefings, did you?"

"I take it from the notion that I was featured in a 'century briefing' that I am one of the most, if not _the_ most, well-known figure on Earth in the twenty-first century?" Sherlock asked Hart.

Hart nodded. "Absolutely."

Sherlock turned back to Jack. "Then in answer to your question, who the hell am I, I can say with confidence that I am exactly the person you need here at Torchwood."

"Oh, of course." The dark-haired woman had come to stand behind them in the doorway, and it was hard to say which displayed more sarcasm—her words or her eyes. "Another pompous ass. Just what we need."

"Aha," Jack chuckled. "Now, Gwen... maybe we should give him a chance. After all, I tried to get rid of Ianto and that turned out to be a mistake..."

"You tried to get rid of Ianto?"

"When he first wanted to join us. Before your time."

"Oh, well thank God you changed your mind."

"Yes, yes," Hart interrupted. "The point is, you've lost two valuable team members, and Sherlock and I are going to take their places."

Jack glared. "Bad word choice."

"Oh, come on, Jack. Don't be melodramatic. What are you, five years old?"

"What do you think you can bring to this team?"

Hart tossed his head haughtily. "I'll tell you what. I can do anything you can do, Mr. Captain leader, sir. Only faster and better."

"Faster, I'll give you. But no one does it better than me."

It took Sherlock a few moments' study of Jack's dirty smirk to realize that the man's mind was completely in the gutter and he was no longer talking about agency-related skills at all. _So, he's not entirely straight, either. This could become annoying._

"Furthermore," Hart went on, "Sherlock's got all the brain that your little Japanese beauty had and more, plus he's a quick study. He can pick up where she left off in no time at all."

_That's a bit bold. I'm not at all certain that I can pick up where she left off. I have no clue what she was working on. Or with. Or for._

"John, this is ridiculous," Jack said, leaning on his desk. "I told you when you first came here that I didn't want you on the team."

"Yes, but you had four then. Now you've got just two. You need me. Us," he added quickly.

_Hart and Harkness have a long history. Much longer than any of the Torchwood members had with their leader. Hart misses Harkness and for some reason wants desperately to be near him. _Sherlock was liking the situation less and less. _I am simply his ticket in._

"You're all talk," Jack told Hart. "I know what you really want, and you're not going to get it. It's not there to get anymore. I've moved on. You need to do the same."

"You say I'm all talk—give me a chance to show you what I can do. What can it hurt? Give us a chance."

The chance was given very reluctantly. Jack gave rapid orders, Gwen gave snarky comments, Ianto gave coffee... to Jack and Gwen, somehow always forgetting to bring any for Hart or Sherlock. Not that Sherlock minded much. Of all his addictions, coffee was not one.

He managed to get the hang of Toshiko's workstation, and he was beginning to understand one of her latest projects after a couple of hours, but he was nowhere near ready to take on the work himself.

"Got some fieldwork," Jack said, pulling on his long coat as he came out of his office. "Gwen, with me."

"Can I come?" Hart asked eagerly.

"You're running point, tiger," Jack answered with sarcastic sweetness.

"Yes." Hart sprang from his chair.

"Jack..." Ianto said, misgiving showing on his face.

Jack gave Ianto a light kiss and stage-whispered, "Keep an eye on him."

Sherlock looked at Ianto appraisingly when the others were gone. _He still seems nervous, but it's different now. He's more concerned about the others than he is about being left here with me. Either he knows they're about to face some serious danger, or he's worried that Hart will steal his boy friend. _Sherlock grimaced at his own thoughts. _What have I let myself in for?_

* * *

_Thus ends chapter 3. Thoughts? Snarky comments? Coffee? I'll take 'em.  
_


	4. Assessment

_I'm glad to be getting a good reception for this story. I think you'll enjoy this next part.  
_

_A/N: I made up a little bit of history for Sherlock based on the sparse clues we have about the character's early life. It's not canon, but it could be. :p I also have a direct quote from one of the Sherlock Holmes books. Points if you spot it.  
_

* * *

Chapter 4: Assessment

X X X

After a few minutes, Ianto came to look over Sherlock's shoulder. "How's it going?" he asked.

"A lot slower than it would if Miss Sato had written her notes more clearly. It's obvious that she didn't take into account that someone else might have to take over her work."

"People don't generally plan on dying young..."

"In her line of work, she should have."

After a silence of several seconds, Ianto said, "As I said, they don't _generally_ plan on it. But Tosh did leave us a message in case of her death."

Sherlock perked up. "Really? Maybe she left a clue hidden somewhere then... something to help decode some of this drivel... I wonder if some of this is actually Japanese."

Ianto walked away, and Sherlock assumed he had stalked off because of the way the conversation had gone. But he was surprised (rare indeed, for Sherlock Holmes) when Ianto returned and held out a notebook to him.

"Maybe this will help. We kept it in her archive as it didn't seem important to our ongoing work, but it may help you 'decode' her notes."

Sherlock took the notebook and flipped through it. _Codes for various system functions... notes on alien species... notes on an individual's behavior._ He wondered who the individual was, and why it was important that he "doesn't like green peppers" or that he "hates golf." _A list of chemical compounds to be picked up, a note to write up a report, a date and time with "Gwen's wedding" above it, underlined twice and circled._

"Thank you," Sherlock told Ianto after his initial perusal. "This may help a good deal."

"Don't mention it," Ianto answered stiffly, as if saying a clearer "you're welcome" would have put his life in danger.

The notations in the book were a little clearer than those in Toshiko's computer files. Sherlock at last felt that he was making a breakthrough when the others returned to the Hub.

Jack was directing a humanoid creature in front of him, its arms restrained behind its back. Gwen followed closely after them, one hand resting on the gun at her hip. Hart brought up the rear, looking muddy from head to toe and _extremely_ out of sorts.

Sherlock stood and took a good look at the grotesque prisoner.

"Holmes, this is a weevil. Mr. Weevil, meet Sherlock Holmes."

"Does it know how to speak our language?" Sherlock asked.

"Nah. We don't know how to speak its language either. They're pretty aggressive, but we've got this one sedated. I'm taking him down to the holding tank."

"Do you have other alien creatures down there?"

"Just another weevil right now," Gwen answered. She glanced at Hart. "You'd better get yourself a shower immediately."

"You think?" Hart snapped.

"You're the one bragging about being the most capable one of us—it's your own fault Jack sent you down there."

Ianto grimaced at Hart. "You can use my things; just go."

Hart wasted no more time and headed for the shower. As soon as he was gone, Gwen giggled. "You should have seen him. My god, he's so pathetic."

"That bad?" Ianto asked, seeming cheered by her report.

"He's so full of himself, and trying so hard to impress Jack, he just comes off as desperate and conceited. There's no way he's staying." She glanced over at Sherlock. "How'd pretty boy do?"

_She certainly has no problem speaking her mind. Under different circumstances, she might be all right to work with._

"He seems to be getting a grasp for Tosh's system," Ianto admitted grudgingly. "Better than you or I could."

"Better than Jack, if he keeps at it?"

"Maybe."

"Wait, what's better than Jack?" Jack asked, coming back into the room, sans weevil.

"What's _not?"_ Gwen asked saucily.

Sherlock went back to his work, bored with their banter.

A few hours later, Sherlock was ready to make a report. "I've determined that Miss Sato had discovered the intended use of this particular device. It was, in fact, meant to be used to capture images and display them for viewing. She had also found that there were no images stored in the device. Instead of setting this project aside and moving on to more important things, she continued to study it as if she intended to build one herself someday. She clearly didn't know how to prioritize, something of a trend in associates, it would seem."

"It was her job," said Ianto. "She learned all she could about the artifacts we found, and set down her findings for reference later. There's no telling when something might come in useful."

"He's got a point though," said Hart. "If Tosh had sorted her work by importance, instead of by the order in which the artifacts were found..."

"I always decided what she worked on first," Jack cut in. "If something was urgent, it got pushed to the top. Otherwise, chronology took precedence. We were keeping careful track of what came through the rift when. It was an ongoing study."

"It was a study which took your subordinate's attention from more important things," Sherlock declared.

Jack frowned at him. "I don't like your attitude."

"I don't like your methods."

"I don't like your presence here."

"The feeling is mutual. Torchwood needs a sensible leader."

"Gwen?"

Gwen shook her head a little, coming out of her fixture on the unfolding argument. "Yes?"

"Get out the retcon. Ianto, make a fresh pot of coffee. We're all going to sit down and have a nice coffee break, and then John's taking this gumshoe home."

"Don't do that," Hart protested.

"You're out," Jack told him. "Both of you."

Hart sighed. "Fine. Let me do it, though. Want to make sure to get the dosage right."

"As long as he doesn't remember any of us, I'll be satisfied."

"You're going to wipe my memory?" Sherlock asked, subtly tensing in case he needed to defend himself.

"Just the last two days," Hart assured him. "You won't remember meeting me, but the rest of your life will be fine."

Sherlock relaxed. It was a regrettable loss of information, but under the circumstances, complying seemed best.

X X X

Hart dosed Sherlock's cup of coffee with the clear solution. "Happy?" he asked, moving to take it with his own cup to the conference room, where the others were waiting.

"Hang on," said Jack. He took the mug from John. "I'll carry it."

"Suit yourself. I'll bring the pot." Hart quickly tipped a few drops of retcon into the coffee pot before picking it up. He pocketed the bottle.

"May as well dose yourself, too," Jack said.

"Why?"

"Because if I were you, I'd want to forget everything that happened today."

"Are you going to make me?"

"If I have to."

Hart sighed. "Fine." In the conference room, he administered more retcon to his own cup. "Here's how," he said, lifting his mug in a toast. "You'll get me back to my flat once I'm asleep, won't you?"

"Sure," said Jack.

They all sat sipping their coffee. The Torchwood agents shuffled through papers while they waited, going over old information.

"Drinking it slowly will just put it off a little longer," Jack said to Hart, draining his cup and reaching for the pot again. "Might as well get it over-with."

"I suppose you're right." Hart turned to a very drowsy Sherlock. "But don't worry. It won't erase your old memories. It won't hurt. And it won't work," he added as Jack's head hit the table.

"What did you do?" Ianto demanded.

Gwen tried to stand and fell back in her chair. "I'm going to bloody kill you," she said, struggling to lift her gun. It fell from her hand onto the table, and her head soon followed. A moment later, Ianto was out, too.

Hart sprang up and went to Sherlock. His cup was empty.

"Sherlock?" Hart said loudly, slapping the detective's face. "It's going to be all right. I'll come back for you. You will remember, I promise." He wasn't sure that any of what he said got through, but there was nothing for it now. He got up and took the coffee pot to the sink and washed it well before putting it away. He could feel the sleepiness starting to close in, but he washed all the mugs meticulously and returned the retcon vial to its place in the lab. Then he went to Tosh's terminal where, with a little help of his wrist strap, he wiped the CCTV footage from the day and turned off all the cameras on the main floor. He rushed back to Sherlock and set his vortex manipulator to take them back to Baker Street.

They arrived just inside the outer door. After finding Sherlock's latch key in his jacket pocket, Hart hoisted the detective up in a fireman's lift and carried him to the door upstairs. Once inside, he laid Sherlock on the couch and pulled an afghan off the back of it to spread over his legs.

"Well, I wish I could stay," Hart said, struggling to keep his eyes open. He checked the time and saw that Sherlock had only been missing for a few hours since his abduction. Dr. Watson was probably asleep upstairs. "I've got half a dose of retcon to sleep off... but even if I forget you, I've got those pictures we took of you and enough voice recordings to trigger my memory to come back. Then I'll be back for you. Promise." He bent to kiss Sherlock's forehead and brush the dark curls back as he'd been longing to since they met. "See you soon."

X X X

"I remembered meeting you and all," Hart told Sherlock as they walked. "And some of the stuff from my place. But our day at Torchwood was mostly gone. But the more I listened to the recordings and looked at your pictures, the more I remembered. I've also developed a little serum of my own that helps counteract the retcon. Doesn't bring it all back, but it makes it easier to remember. Took me about two days to completely reconstruct what happened, but I've got it all straight now."

"I must congratulate you," Sherlock said.

"Thanks. Are you still with me in this plan?"

Sherlock considered. "May I be frank with you?"

"Certainly."

"I know you're only using me to get into Torchwood because you fancy yourself in love with Captain Harkness."

"S'pose you were bound to see that."

"However, I don't think you mean any harm to me personally, and I can probably avoid getting tossed out with you when he's had enough of you."

"Convinced he'll sack me, eh?"

"He's far more devoted to Ianto Jones than he ever will be to you, whatever your past together may have been."

Hart looked down at the pavement. "I hope you're wrong. But I see what you're saying. And if it comes to it, I wish you well."

"You won't hold it against me if they want me to stay and you to go?"

"No."

"Then yes, I'm still in."

"Excellent. Let's go get some ice cream for dessert and we can plan our strategy."

"You can if you like; I never strategize on a full stomach."

"Wondered why you ate so light. Well, you can watch me eat some, then."

_No qualms about indulgence at risk of making companions jealous,_ Sherlock noted. Then, as an afterthought, _May be hoping to stir a reaction by exhibiting the skills of his tongue._

They sat at a table outside once Hart had his choc-mint sundae. Hart leaned down to pick up the cherry by its stem with his teeth. It slowly disappeared into his mouth, and a few moments later he pulled out one end, caught the other between his teeth and pulled tight the two knots he had tied.

"Lovely party trick," Sherlock said dryly. _Definitely correct about the exhibition._

"So," Hart said, setting the stem aside and taking up his spoon, "we've got to get you a nice, believable, pitiable scenario going."

"What will Harkness be looking for?"

"Well, you've got the youth and good looks, and you've got the smarts. We need some sort of tragedy in your life. Do you have family?"

"A brother."

"Your parents are not living?"

"No."

"Perfect. I mean... sorry."

Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing Hart's apology.

"Tell me about them."

"Squire and Benneth Holmes, he a landowner and she a music teacher. Two gifted children."

Hart snorted around a spoonful of ice cream and mumbled, "Go on."

"They were involved in a car accident when my brother was at university. The squire was killed instantly. Mother suffered a few broken bones, but recovered. From that time, she was weak and hated traveling. She stayed indoors most of the time, against her doctor's orders to get fresh air and sunshine. She suffered a stroke a few years after and died in hospital."

"This is brilliant stuff," Hart put in, "but you have to sound like you care. How old were you when your mother died?"

"Sixteen."

"And when your father died?"

"Eleven."

Hart swore and stared into his dish for a moment. "Okay. So, the impressionable lad of eleven loses his dad. Bereft of a father figure, he...?"

"Relents, ending an age-old argument, and lets his mother teach him violin."

"Oh, that's good."

"It's true."

"Lovely. And then at sixteen, when his beloved violin-teaching mother passes away, young Sherlock..."

"Enters university."

"At sixteen?"

"Certainly. Mycroft started at seventeen—I had to best him."

"Mycroft being the brother?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, this is good. What did you study at university?"

"Biology, mainly, with an emphasis on chemistry."

"Hobbies?"

"Following sensational court cases in the news, chess, boxing, fencing..."

"Oh, lovely. The troubled boy expresses his frustrations through combat. I like it."

Together they gradually worked out a story which Hart thought would appeal to the Torchwood team and which Sherlock deemed close enough to the truth that he could tell it believably. Then they began going over details: how they would present themselves, how quickly the story would come out, et cetera.

"If Gwen takes a shine to you, Jack's more likely to accept you, so you might try to get her on your side."

"I'll bear it in mind, but women are never to be entirely trusted—not the best of them."

"Ha, you're not wrong there. They might have a recovery of memory when they see you," Hart cautioned. "If so, we'll have to pull the old 'We got off on the wrong foot' line. Can you wing that?"

"I think so, yes."

"And you can blame your part of it on your troubled past." He picked up his empty dish and licked it. "That was really good ice cream. You want a lick?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

Once the final details were worked out, Hart stood and offered his arm to Sherlock. "This is our last chance. Even if they don't remember you this time around, I doubt retcon will work a second time."

"I understand." Sherlock felt his pulse quickening in anticipation. _Game on._

* * *

_Hope you're having fun; I am. ^^_


	5. Attempt 2

_Thanks for the couple of reviews. Hope you enjoy this one—a little longer than the last._

_Spoiler: Little Torchwood spoiler for season 2 here. Shouldn't be too big a deal.  
_

* * *

Chapter 5: Attempt #2

X X X

"Jack," Ianto called, "Captain Hart's outside. And he has someone with him."

Jack got out from behind his desk. "Man or woman?"

"Man, I think. Either a very tall, broad-shouldered woman or a cute, curly-haired man."

"Going by my experience with John's taste, I'd guess cute, curly-haired man." Jack hurried to look over Ianto's shoulder at the screen displaying a view of the front door area. "Yup. Wonder what he wants. He's not just coming over to show off a new boy friend—not his style."

"You don't think this man is a love interest, then?"

"I didn't say that. Let them in. Let's get it over with."

Ianto activated the giant cog-wheel door and let the two men inside.

Hart strode in, his companion close behind him.

"Oh," Ianto said when he saw the newcomer up close, "you're that detective who was in the paper last week."

Jack looked from Hart to his companion. "Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Hart introduced him. "Sherlock, this is Captain Jack Harkness and his associate Ianto Jones. Gwen Cooper's round here somewhere, I expect?"

"Right here," Gwen said, stepping up to stand just behind Jack's left shoulder. "What do you want?"

"Quick and to the point. I like that."

"You like anything that moves," Ianto accused. There was something about Sherlock's expression that seemed off. He didn't seem surprised by the unusual look of the Hub. He seemed aloof. Oblivious, almost.

"I knew you lot would be keeping your eyes peeled for a new medic and technician," Hart said. "Plus you're just short-handed all around. I made Sherlock's acquaintance a few days ago, and the more we talked, the more I thought he'd be a good fit for this agency."

Jack folded his arms and looked Sherlock over. "You ever seen combat?"

"I went to boarding school," Sherlock answered flatly.

"Children can be so nasty," Gwen put in.

"What kind of training have you had?" Jack asked.

"I was lightweight boxing champion each year at university. I also won several intercollegiate fencing and singlestick matches. I have a knowledge of firearms; mostly semi-automatic handguns, but other types as well. I'm sorry if this is an inconvenience."

Jack blinked. "An inconvenience?"

"Hart bringing me here without an appointment or any warning—you probably have important things to get on with."

"Well, he's more polite than you, I'll give him that," Jack directed at Hart.

"He's said to be one of the greatest minds of our time," Ianto said grudgingly. "Maybe he could help us solve the mystery of the other day."

"Good idea. Think you can help us figure out why we all lost a day's worth of memories?"

"If you can give me your full cooperation, I'm sure I could," Sherlock replied instantly.

For some reason, Ianto thought Hart looked like he didn't like this suggestion.

"Well, come on in," Jack said. "Might as well give you a shot. Sherlock, what did you study at school? Law enforcement?"

"Chemistry."

"Oh, thank God," Gwen said. "I don't think I speak just for myself when I say that it's easy to get lost in Owen's lab."

"Hey," said Jack. "I don't get lost in there... I just don't know what ninety percent of that stuff is, that's all."

"May I see it?" asked Sherlock.

Ianto stepped forward. "This way." _I don't like Hart one bit, but if Sherlock Holmes joined the team, it would probably take a lot of strain off Jack._

Jack stayed behind to talk to Hart. Sherlock took a quick glance around the laboratory before starting to look more closely at some sections.

"We do know we were all drugged," said Gwen. "Jack's developed this solution called retcon, and it knocks you out and takes a day or so off your memory. We noticed a bit was missing from this bottle here." She indicated the bottle of clear liquid.

"How is it administered?" Sherlock asked.

"Usually it's diluted in a drink of some sort. Just about anything besides water will mask the slight taste. It can be injected, though."

"Did you all wake up in the same place?"

"Yes; here in the Hub. But we didn't have any drinks near us, and nothing was out of place."

"Almost nothing," Ianto corrected. "There's Tosh's notebook."

"Tosh?" Sherlock asked.

"She was our computer genius/alien technology expert," Gwen supplied.

"Her notebook was out at her workstation," Ianto continued. "We'd been keeping it in her archive. None of us remembers getting it out." He felt a twinge of déjà vu, as if he had explained this to someone before.

"There was the weevil, too."

"Weevil?" _Damn. Hart forgot to get rid of the extra weevil in the lockup downstairs._

"An alien life form that we've got in a cell," Ianto explained. "We've had one prisoner for a year or two, but when we woke up from the retcon, there were two of them down there."

"Fascinating. Anything from the surveillance system?"

"CCTV was erased. And when we came to, all the cameras on the main floor were shut down."

"That's very helpful."

"It's a bloody nuisance," Gwen contradicted.

"If only the cameras on this floor were off, that means that whoever is responsible did the CCTV wipe from this floor. Once his, her or their image was gone from all the footage, he needed to be sure that no new footage would be recorded as he made his exit."

"I don't see how that's much help," said Ianto.

"It shows that not only did this person not want you to see what he'd come to do, he also didn't want you to be able to recognize him. He had a working knowledge of modern human surveillance. You're not dealing with some uneducated little alien wandering in through the rift from days gone by. Also, you're not dealing with someone who could teleport in and out of the Hub—otherwise he could have left from the blind area of your late medic's workstation after wiping the CCTV footage from there. You are also dealing with either an accomplished chemist, or someone familiar with this very laboratory. Nothing was disturbed here, so the perpetrator must have known exactly where to find the retcon solution and how to administer it. Gwen, as you pointed out, this laboratory is not a simple place for someone who doesn't spend a lot of time in it."

"How did you know which workstation was Owen's?" Gwen asked.

"As we walked through, I observed the notebook Ianto mentioned at Tosh's workstation. You were sitting at yours as we came in. Ianto clearly works at the desk nearest the front door, and Jack, as leader, has his office set apart from the others. Process of elimination."

Ianto and Gwen exchanged a glance.

"Okay, you're pretty good," said Gwen. "I might be willing to put up with Hart for a bit to keep you around."

"Has anything like this ever happened before?" Sherlock asked, walking slowly around the laboratory.

"It has," said Ianto. "Earlier this year—all five of us woke up round the table in the conference room just like this time. Nothing seemed out of place."

"Excellent."

"That's good?" Gwen asked skeptically.

"It supports my theory. I'd like a look at Tosh's notebook."

"Any luck?" Jack asked when the others returned to the main workroom.

"I have a few leads," Sherlock answered. "I'll need to observe your team for a while. I won't be certain of my suspicion until I've had a chance to observe you all going about your work."

Jack shrugged. "All right. I'll give you a shot. In the meantime, how about trying out Toshiko's computer? No one knew coding like that girl, and unless we can make some sense of it, we won't be able to catalog her research or use her calculations."

"No harm in trying. I wanted a look at her notebook anyway."

Something felt off to Ianto, but he kept silent.

X X X

Sherlock could tell that Hart was nervous, but he was reasonably sure that the others would attribute his manner to his desire to show himself as a potential asset to the Torchwood team. As far as Sherlock was concerned, things were progressing quite well. His expectations were gratified when Gwen brought a chair over after about half an hour.

"How's it coming?" she asked.

"Toshiko's methods of recording her research were somewhat confusing, but the more personal entries in her notebook are lending some insight," Sherlock recited.

After a moment's silence, Gwen said, "Ianto says you're a detective. Getting to be well-known. Almost famous."

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one of my kind."

"I'm afraid I don't keep up on much of the news from London. Work here keeps me pretty busy."

"You also have a bit of a grudge against London. Naturally, you wouldn't be interested in people or events there."

"What makes you say that?" she asked, sounding flustered.

"Your tone." He didn't look up from the computer screen, but he judged by her silence that she was taking time to weigh his words.

"I suppose I could have a wee bit of a grudge," she admitted. "They never cooperate with Jack... Also, Ianto worked at the London branch of Torchwood for a while, and... bad things happened there."

"Something unpleasant happened to his last love interest. It was a woman, wasn't it?"

Gwen scooted her chair closer. "All right, how do you know that?" she asked, this time sounding conspiratorial.

"He's nervous around Jack. Not just the ordinary nervous excitement of a shy lover. It's the extra nervousness of someone who has never had a lover of his own gender before. He feels out of his depth. Insecure. An excellent motive for wiping memories and CCTV footage, by the way."

"Oh... you can't be thinking that Ianto would do that? Why?"

"Perhaps something very awkward happened, or something he regretted. Surely most people would like to be able to erase a scene from their lives now and then."

"Is that your theory? That Ianto was embarrassed or ashamed of something enough to do this to us?"

"The theory is that it was an inside job. One or more of you decided that things would be better off here if you all forgot a day. You said this has happened before, and in both cases, nothing seemed out of place. Nothing missing. Nothing broken. Suggests that whoever did it meant you no harm." He did look up this time, and saw the consideration on her face.

"That does seem possible... I rather hope you're right. I don't like the idea of anyone else coming into the Hub and messing with our memories." She waited until he'd been back at work for a minute or two before she asked, "So, how did you and John meet?"

"Captain Hart? You might say we ran into each other."

"That sounds like John. But how did you get to be... are you friends?"

Sherlock took his time. This was an opportunity to appear vulnerable. He ducked his head slightly. "Not exactly... I don't think we're what you'd call friends. We share some common interests, we've traveled together a bit. I suppose it's an acquaintance I like having. But that doesn't really constitute friendship, does it?"

Gwen gave him a perplexed look. "Well, how does it compare to your other relationships? Surely you have other friends?"

Again, Sherlock waited a while before he spoke, as if he were hard pressed to come up with an answer. "There's my flatmate, John Watson."

"What about schoolmates?"

"No... I really didn't get on with anyone at school."

"Have you any family?" She was sounding quite concerned by this time.

"Just my brother. But... he's seven years my senior, and... we don't speak much."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry, but what happened to your parents?"

_Use euphemisms for death,_ Sherlock reminded himself. _As if the very mention of it is painful._ "My father passed away when I was eleven. I lost my mother a few years later."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. I can't imagine growing up without my mum or dad."

Sherlock made a show of pulling himself together. "Well... one must go on. Work to be done."

"Yes, I suppose so. As a detective—sorry, a _consulting_ detective—what exactly do you do?"

"I observe. Catch the important little details missed by the police. There are a lot more of those than you might think—no offense."

"Why should I be offended?"

"You're an ex-constable, aren't you? Cardiff Police?"

A bemused smile. "Yes... and how did you know that?"

"The way you carry yourself, your strict attention to facts and the way you record them. The carriage alone suggests a uniform, but the recording of facts doesn't speak of many military positions attractive to a decidedly Welsh woman with a long-term boy friend. Police is far more likely. Despite your warm demeanor, your methods of conversation with me have been slightly interrogative—again, police."

"Jack," Gwen called, "I think we'd better keep Sherlock around a while. If we ever lose our memories again, he'll be able to tell us what we forgot just by looking at us."

Sherlock forced what he hoped looked like a friendly smile. "It's nice to be appreciated," he said.

They talked, Sherlock observed, and Jack let Hart go out for some fieldwork as before, but this time their return was very different. There was no prisoner. Sherlock knew that Hart had remembered the weevil by now, and was silently berating himself for forgetting, but he was making the best of it. He looked tired, but so did the others.

"How was it?" Ianto asked.

"Mission accomplished," said Jack. "More or less. We took out a threat. Let's leave it at that."

"One for the home team, then. Anything I can do?"

"Order a pizza," Gwen suggested. "And remember not to order under the name Torchwood."

Jack snorted. "Yeah, seriously."

X X X

"I know what you're trying to do," Jack told Hart. "You're trying to get everyone attached to this cute little genius so we'll want to keep him. But I've seen the price tag, and it's you."

"What's wrong with me?"

"You're hoping I'll want you back in my personal life, and that's not going to happen."

"You're with Ianto now. I get that. But is it so wrong of me to still want to be close to you?"

Jack looked him over, watching for the tiny things that would tell him if his former partner were lying—things almost no one else could spot. Things he wasn't seeing now. "If you want to join us because you really think you could help make a difference for the better in this world, then I'm willing to give you a shot. But I have to know that you'll take orders. We're not partners anymore. I'm responsible for everyone on this team, and I take that very seriously; understand?"

Hart nodded. "Yes, I understand."

"I won't put up with insubordination of any kind."

"Okay."

"And I hope you're hitting on that gumshoe, because that'll mean Ianto and I can quit worrying about you butting into our relationship."

"One doesn't hit on Sherlock Holmes," Hart said with a smirk. "Not sure exactly what one _does_ do to get his attention, though."

"Whatever. Bottom line: you make trouble, you're out."

"Got it."

"Good. Now, send Sherlock in before you go."

Jack sat on his desk. It had been a long day, but not a bad one. It was nice having five people in the Hub again. And if he was honest, John Hart hadn't been more difficult to deal with than Owen Harper had on one of his more snarky days. He smiled when Sherlock came in.

"Hey," he said in greeting. "Close the door."

Sherlock didn't hesitate to obey.

"Good job today. A really good job."

Sherlock smiled slowly. "You know, don't you? Have you known all along?"

"I started getting little flashbacks when I saw the extra weevil in the cell, but when you walked in, everything started coming back pretty quick."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"And ruin the show?" Jack shook his head. "I used to be a con man a few years back... I was curious to see how you two would play this thing out. You did better than John did, and that's saying something. I have to say, I like you better this time around. I guess it's too much to hope that this is the real you?"

"If you like this version better, I can keep it up."

"I'd rather you be honest. Just... try to keep the rudeness to a minimum."

"You want me to come back, then?"

"As long as you don't have anything else demanding your attention. We can use you here."

Sherlock nodded, looking satisfied. "Then, barring a juicy murder, I'll see you tomorrow morning, Captain."

"Good. And you can call me Jack. Which reminds me: it was a nice touch calling her Toshiko this time around, instead of 'miss Sato.'"

"More personal. Endeared me to Gwen, who was obviously quite close to her."

"Well played."

"Do you wish your knowledge of our charade to remain a secret for the time being?"

"For now, yeah. I'll spill it if I feel like it later."

Jack smiled to himself as Sherlock left his office. It felt all wrong the first time. But this time things felt very right, considering Hart was involved. _Whether or not John can behave himself, I hope Sherlock sticks around._

* * *

_Thanks for reading and don't forget to review. ^^_


	6. Abduction 2

_Things get kind of hairy in here... I'm using real-life people as characters. So here's a DISCLAIMER: I am writing fictional things about an English politician and his wife. I do not know these people (they will probably be very out of character!), and the events I'm writing about never really happened. They are not to be taken seriously. If I get facts about English government wrong, I apologize. This story is just for fun. I chose this particular man because he was in office between the second and third seasons of Torchwood, at which point I have based the story. ;)  
_

_So, with that out of the way, enjoy!  
_

* * *

Chapter 6: Abduction #2

X X X

Hart managed to land them in Sherlock's sitting room this time, startling John Watson into spilling a few drops of his tea as he sat in front of the television which was tuned to a news station. John stared at the duo a moment.

"Two, one," Sherlock counted.

John set his tea aside and got to his feet. "You bloody liar," he said.

"And action."

"You said you'd text me. You said you'd text me _as soon as you could—_those were your words, were they not?" John snatched something up from the table where he'd set his teacup. "Well, how can you bloody text me when _your_ phone is in _my pocket?!"_

"I understand you're upset."

"You said you'd text and then you planted your phone on me."

"I didn't wish to be interrupted, and I couldn't risk my phone being confiscated."

"Supposing you'd needed my help?"

"I didn't."

"You've got a half-dozen messages."

Sherlock held out his hand.

"I think you owe me an apology first." John crossed his arms stubbornly.

Hart made himself at home on the sofa, putting his hands up behind his head and smiling in amusement.

Seeing it as the quickest way to get his phone back, Sherlock said, "Very well; I apologize."

John rolled his eyes and handed over the phone. "You're so inhuman."

"You see," Sherlock directed at Hart, "this is what I have to live with: I give him what he wants, and he's still not satisfied."

"I'm not that way," Hart offered. "Give me what I want and I'm _very_ satisfied."

There were only four messages, not "a half-dozen," but there were several missed calls as well. The first message was from John: _So, how's it going?_ The second was also from John: _When u read b advised: Im going 2 kill u._ The third was from Mycroft: _Pls call at earliest convenience._ Sherlock rolled his eyes. Only Mycroft would abbreviate "please" and not "Convenience." The last was also from Mycroft: _Call immediately._ The three missed calls were all from Mycroft. Sherlock pocketed his phone.

"Hadn't you better call Mycroft?" John asked.

"Has anyone come round looking for me?"

"No..."

"Then it can wait until morning. He wants me urgently, but it's not yet considered an emergency."

John looked at Hart and pointed accusingly at Sherlock. "No consideration."

Hart smiled. "I see that. But you know, Mycroft's his annoying brother, and you're just his flatmate, right? It's not like either of you is his boss or his lover. I don't see what the fuss is for."

John snorted. "No one's the boss of Sherlock. He makes that clear every moment. And the day he finds a lover is the day my sister plays football for England."

"Ah, you have a sister?"

"She doesn't have a good relationship track record," Sherlock put in, knowing where Hart's mind was going. "Bit of a drinking problem."

"Woman after my own heart," Hart said with a grin.

"What... what are you even...?" John sputtered. "Look, it's been a long day—Sherlock, would you please ask your associate to leave?"

Hart faked a shiver. "Associate? Such a cold term. What time should I come for you in the morning, old thing?"

"Anytime after seven will do," Sherlock replied.

"All right. I should get lodgings near you so I don't have to hop so much... or near Torchwood. But I think it's better to live far from the Hub. Less likely to give away its location. Not that the locals don't have an inkling already. Oh well. Ta ta." Hart punched something into the keypad on his wrist strap and vanished.

"How does that work?" John asked.

"How isn't really important," said Sherlock.

"You can't keep doing this, you know."

"Doing what?"

"Swanning off without any word, no updates, not anything to let me know you're all right..."

"I thought I gave you sufficient assurance before I left. There was no need for concern."

"You said you'd text."

"All right, I lied. Tomorrow you can assume I will again be busy. But I'll keep my phone with me, and if I think it necessary, I'll text you."

John sighed. "I'm sure that's the best I'm likely to get." He headed toward his room. "Good night, Sherlock."

X X X

The next morning, after a modest breakfast, Sherlock erased two more urgent messages from Mycroft and dialed his brother's number.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"That isn't what you want to know," Sherlock said impatiently. "What crisis so urgently demands my attention?"

"Something which cannot be discussed over the phone," Mycroft said firmly. "I'm in London; it's not far. Will you come?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not much."

Hart chose that moment to appear in the sitting room, just as John came down in his robe.

"Must you appear without warning?" John asked in an irritated tone.

"Saves making you answer the door, doesn't it?" Hart rejoined.

Sherlock held up a hand to forestall any further argument while Mycroft gave him an address. When he ended the call, he stood to face Hart. "I'm sorry, but I can't come with you right away. My brother has something urgent for me to attend to. Of course, you could save me some time if you could take me to Hanover Gardens."

"Where's that?"

"Oval, south London."

Hart directed his attention to his wrist strap. "Hanover... Gardens," he said slowly.

"What's there?" asked John.

"Mycroft wouldn't say over the phone," said Sherlock. "But I think it likely that it's something to do with the Lord High Chancellor."

"Oh, right. Jack Straw."

"Locked on," said Hart. "Ready now?"

Sherlock nearly said yes, but then he glanced at John and gave an impatient sigh. "No... I'm afraid we'll have to wait for John to get dressed."

John looked up in surprise. "Oh, want me along, do you?"

"If you can hurry."

Hart sat down and helped himself to an extra slice of toast Sherlock hadn't gotten to. He spread butter and jam on it. "Touchy little fellow."

"He'll be fine."

"I almost think he's jealous."

"Of...?"

"Of me! What did you think?"

"I thought you might be referring to my working without him at Torchwood."

Hart shrugged. "Almost the same thing, isn't it? He might be afraid of being replaced."

"John isn't a paid subordinate of mine; it hardly follows that I might replace him."

"You just don't get it."

Sherlock refused to attempt to "get" what Hart was saying. It wasn't important and it didn't interest him. Limited brain capacity was best saved for more relevant items.

Before long, John returned and Hart transported them to Hanover Gardens.

"Good lord," John exclaimed, teetering and falling to his knees on the sidewalk.

Sherlock tipped his head from side to side, cracking his neck. "Not the most comfortable way to travel, but certainly the most efficient."

"Probably causes cancer." John struggled to his feet.

Hart shook his head. "It's perfectly safe. Well, unless you don't know how to use it. Could accidentally put yourself in the middle of a sun or something."

"Now you tell me..."

"I know how to use it. Perfectly safe."

Sherlock stepped away from the others. "Come on, you two. This way."

It was a short walk to the Hanover Arms pub where they found Mycroft seated at a small outdoor table.

"Who is this?" was the first thing out of Mycroft's mouth. His eyes ran over Hart's face and strange attire over and over.

"He's part of a special ops task force I've been dealing with. We postponed our plans for today to come here. He was good enough to give John and me a lift."

"Pleasure to meet you," Hart put in. "I've heard impressive things about you."

"Can he be trusted?" Mycroft demanded.

"If he can't, England's national security is small on our list of worries," Sherlock said, thinking of the danger planet Earth might be in if Hart went rogue.

"Very well. Come with me." Mycroft led them around the pub, heading for the square behind it.

"It's about the Chancellor, isn't it?"

"There's no need to spit out your assumptions here. If I wanted the whole neighborhood to know something was wrong, I'd have told you to come straight to the house..."

Sherlock stopped listening to Mycroft's words and then shut out his voice altogether. _Something has happened to the Chancellor. If he had been killed, the SIS would most likely be handling it. If his wife had been killed, Scotland Yard would probably have the case—they wouldn't call Mycroft in for that. So, the Chancellor, his wife, or some very sensitive information has been taken from his home. Mycroft wants my help recovering the kidnapper or enemy of the state._

Inside Straw's home, they were greeted by the Chancellor's wife, Alice. Sherlock noted a couple of men in suits who nodded to Mycroft when they entered.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Holmes," Alice said. "Your brother has told me about you..."

Sherlock extended his hand for her to shake, rightly thinking it would encourage her to stop talking. "In this trying time, there is no need for formality, Mrs. Perkins."

She nodded. "You're right. Has Mycroft told you what happened?"

"No; I hope someone will remedy that as quickly as possible."

"The trouble is, we don't _know_ what happened," said Mycroft. "The Lord High Chancellor, Jack Straw, was last seen about ten-thirty a.m. yesterday. After his meeting with the Justice Secretary, he was driven away by an unknown man at the time thought to be the Chancellor's own driver. We have since confirmed that Straw's usual driver was not on duty yesterday morning. He has witnesses who can account for his whereabouts."

"Jack never came home last night," Alice put in. "I didn't worry too much when he wasn't here for dinner because he often gets impromptu dinner invitations. But when it started to get late and he hadn't called, I tried to reach him. After a while, I started to worry, so I got in touch with Gus O'Donnell to see what had become of him. Jack's last appointment on his itinerary yesterday was with him."

Sherlock was aware of John explaining to Hart that Gus O'Donnell was the Cabinet Secretary. "And O'Donnell told you that the Chancellor never showed up," he guessed.

"That's right. That was when I really started trying to find him. No one knew where he was, and eventually I was put in touch with Mycroft."

"I gather that nothing has been disturbed here in your home?"

"No, nothing that I could see."

"And do we know of any known enemies?"

"Jack had many enemies, but none I can think of that would abduct him."

"We're compiling a Persons of Interest list," Mycroft put in.

"Good. I also want a copy of his itinerary from yesterday," said Sherlock. "I want to know who made arrangements, who knew about these arrangements, who had access to them." He looked up at Alice. "The chances are good that your husband is still alive, and fairly good that we can get him back. How long it will take and his condition on his return are uncertain, but I'm confident that we will have more to go on very soon."

"Thank you. I didn't know what to expect from Mycroft's detective brother, but you inspire confidence."

X X X

"It's not like you to be optimistic," Mycroft said accusingly when they were out of the house again. "What makes you so certain that Straw is alive?"

"If they wanted him dead, chances are high that we would have a body by now," Sherlock explained. "The more time that passes, the better his chances are. Furthermore, Straw is valuable to more people alive than he is dead. A dead politician allows someone else to step into his place, allows a spouse and children to inherit his estate, and can satisfy a personal grudge. But a live politician can be traded for political prisoners, can be held for ransom, can be used as a bargaining chip in endless scenarios. It is much more likely that we will soon find a demand than a body."

"Good reasoning," Hart commented. "And you think that if this demand is met, Straw will be released?"

"Kidnapping an important leader is a serious enough crime-killing him can start a war. Unless something goes wrong, I think the kidnappers will want to make a clean break once they get what they want."

"You think," Mycroft repeated. "You hope."

"I am sure enough to offer hope to the grieving wife. That should lend you some confidence."

"It really should," agreed John. "Sherlock's hardly ever so positive about things like this."

"As soon as you have that itinerary and POI list, email it to me so I can begin looking for the abduction point. And let me know the moment the demand notice surfaces."

Mycroft nodded. "I'll do that."

"In the meantime, I'll be working with Hart in Wales."

"You're going to Wales? Now?"

"We have private transport. Very fast."

"What branch exactly did you say this special ops task force was?"

"I didn't." Sherlock smiled, savoring the moment. "And I'm not at liberty to tell you." _Finally, a security clearance I have that Mycroft doesn't!_

"Very well. Just keep your phone on. And _answer it!"_

"Amen to that," muttered John.

"We'd better part ways here," Sherlock told Hart a little regretfully. "Mycroft oughtn't see the way we go, you know."

"What difference does it make? I know you're going to Wales," Mycroft pointed out.

"Oh, by 'way,' he doesn't mean direction," Hart said, grinning.

* * *

_Finally, a plot, right? xD I've got plans. Please review._


	7. Advisories

_Here the plot thickens a little. I'm sure it won't wow you Sherlock fans, but I hope it will keep you interested. ;) Bella, I had Sherlock address your review personally. ^^ _

* * *

Chapter 7: Advisories

X X X

Hart landed them in Torchwood at eight o'clock—Sherlock knew that meant that a copy of himself was currently talking to Alice Perkins while his later self was arriving at the Hub exactly on time.

"I'd prefer you didn't jump me around in time so much," he told Hart. "Don't want to appear to be aging too quickly or too slowly."

"Oh, they'll never notice if your stream gets off by a few hours or days."

"Nevertheless." Sherlock looked around. The main work area was empty.

Just then, Ianto poked his head in. "Good, you're here. We're all in the conference room." He ducked out again.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Wonder where they're going. Someplace very posh, I think."

Hart looked at him quizzically. "Where who are going?"

"Jack and Ianto. Didn't you notice? He's wearing a tailored vest and a pint of cologne. He and Jack obviously have a date after work tonight."

"That's a bit of an assumption."

"Five pounds says Jack's dressed up too."

"Er... I don't think I want to bet against you."

"Very wise."

As predicted, Jack was in a nice vest as well, and there was a suit coat draped over his chair at the head of the conference table. Hart gave Sherlock an appreciative nod.

"Glad you're here," Jack said. "We just got a message that we think came through the rift. We can't tell what it says yet; we need you guys to help us decode it."

"Is it in English?" asked Sherlock.

"No idea. It's a code."

"Come, captain, surely you can tell whether or not it's in English."

"The symbols seem sort of like hieroglyphics," Ianto put in. "Pictograms, or something like them."

"Here's the printout." Jack handed a sheet of paper to Sherlock.

After just a few moments, Sherlock declared, "Cuneiform. Sumerian, I believe."

"Can you read it?"

"No. But with the help of a computer, we may be able to."

"So, someone sent a message through the rift, using the oldest written language on earth?" asked Ianto.

Sherlock shook his head. "The letters are Sumerian, but the language may not be. There's added punctuation, like what we use in English. And these particular symbols are not the original logograms. They're letters and/or syllabic glyphs. Those weren't used until... at least 3,000 BC, perhaps later."

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that the message isn't from ancient Sumeria," said Hart. "The message came through to your computers, right?"

Jack nodded. "It's pretty unlikely someone from back then would be able to get symbols normally carved into stone or clay tablets to turn into information bytes—though we can't rule out any possibility yet."

"Okay, well, whilst Sherlock's decoding, perhaps we could work on his problem."

"What problem is that?"

"He got himself an assignment from his brother this morning..."

"Hart, don't," Sherlock said sharply.

"Why not?"

"All that my brother told me was in confidence. I won't be giving Mycroft any Torchwood information, and I will not give Torchwood classified information concerning our heads of state. Anyway, Torchwood would only be wasting their time working on this one. And mine, too."

"But it's a simple fix, if you think about it."

Sherlock sighed. "Excuse us for a moment." He headed for the door, grabbing Hart's jacket firmly on the way and dragging him along. Once the door was closed behind them, he released his hold. "You're probably thinking that you could use your vortex manipulator to take me back to the Chancellor's morning meeting where we could intercept his kidnapper and keep him from being abducted."

"What's wrong with that?" Hart asked defensively.

"Supposing we followed that plan—what would we do then? Jump Straw forwards in time to today, hand him over to Mycroft and never explain what happened?"

"Again, what's wrong with that?"

"He's not an ordinary civilian. Other than the Lord High Steward, Jack Straw is the highest ranking Great Officer of State. The Privy Council, the Cabinet, the Department of Constitutional Affairs, et cetera, et cetera, are all linked to him directly. Thousands of people depend upon him. Scores are waiting for him today alone, and the Secret Intelligence Service is going to want to know what happened to him. If I tried to simply hand him over with no explanation, I would probably be arrested on suspicion of treason and conspiracy. And the latter would be true."

"Okay, but you could still go back and get a look at the driver, maybe follow him..."

"If the abduction is ruined before its completion, the kidnappers will disappear without a trace, and the Chancellor may well be killed. If he is left alive, they will likely make another attempt, perhaps with a new target. We'll be back at the start again, and we still won't know who these people are or what they want." Sherlock stood tall and crossed his arms to project his strength and decisiveness. "Now, please do not waste my time or yours with any more of these suggestions. The matter is closed. My work at Torchwood and my work as a consulting detective are separate, and shall always remain so. Is that clear?"

Hart took his time considering. Finally, he said, "All right, but doesn't the SIS know about Torchwood? Don't they ever cooperate?"

"No. They know, but they don't cooperate."

"You've only worked here a day—how do you know that?"

"Gwen told me yesterday. She said that London doesn't cooperate with Jack. I take that to mean that Torchwood's dealings with White Hall and the SIS have not been friendly. I will not suggest to Mycroft that he bring Torchwood into it."

"Very well. Clearly you've thought this out."

"You should learn to trust my judgment. It will save us from going through pointless discussions like this one."

Hart's eyes flashed, but his offended look lasted only a moment. It was quickly replaced by something like...

_Desire,_ Sherlock realized. _He was cross because I derided him, but he let it go because of his attraction to me. It's probably too much to hope that he also understands the truth of what I just said._

X X X

After about an hour of work, Sherlock had pieced together the strange message and concluded that it was in English. He held up the notebook he'd been working on and read the message:

"Close now, not long now, Torchwood, we are coming. We will have your world by force if we must. Send your surrender or many will perish."

"You're sure that's what it says?" Jack asked.

"Feel free to double check the symbols. One thing I can tell you for certain: whoever composed this message knows English better than Sumerian."

"How do you know that?" asked Ianto.

"There are many Sumerian symbols that represent consonant-vowel combinations, but there are sounds we use in English that weren't used in ancient Sumerian. The writer manipulated the glyphs. He literally picked them apart to separate the vowels from the consonants to force them into a lineup that would make sense in English, but which would not make sense in Sumerian. I'm guessing that the letters themselves are meant only to distract us from learning who the senders are."

"So they know English well, but not Sumerian. Sounds rather like us," said Hart.

"How did you say the message arrived?" Sherlock asked Jack.

"It came into all our computers as attachments on our latest received emails, regardless of the sender. We haven't found any way to trace who sent it or how they attached it."

"So, you assumed it was due to rift activity."

"Most things are, around here," said Gwen.

"You can't make assumptions in a case like this. Not when someone's sending global threats."

"It could just be a hoax."

"You know more about aliens than I do—when they threaten the earth, how often are they joking?"

"Good point."

"But why give us a heads-up?" asked Ianto. "Why does it matter if we surrender if they have the force to overpower us anyway?"

"An excellent question," Sherlock said enthusiastically. "The message suggests that they would rather take the planet with its population intact. What does that tell you about these people?"

After a short silence, Gwen asked, "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"No... I'm asking because, as I said before, you know more about aliens than I do."

Jack raised his arms and pointed toward his office with both hands. "I'll check the files and see if we have anything on invaders who wanted to keep the humans alive."

"Before you go, there's one more question you should all be considering in the backs of your minds: How is Torchwood to 'send its surrender' when we haven't a clue where the message came from and are apparently not meant to know how to reach the source of the threat?"

As the others dispersed, Sherlock heard Gwen whisper to Ianto, "Why's he have to be so bloody smart?" There was more, but she was out of his hearing.

Hart grinned at Sherlock. "They'd be lost without you. So, what are you going to work on?"

Sherlock seated himself at Tosh's computer. "I'm going to see if I can get anywhere tracing the message itself. If I can find where it came from, it may tell us a lot. Do you know much about computers?"

"Twenty-first century is a bit old for my knowledge, but I'll help if I can." He pulled up another chair, sat beside Sherlock and cracked his knuckles. "Let's have a look."

X X X

Mycroft's call actually came as a relief to Sherlock—he was getting tired of trying to follow a cyber trail that didn't exist. All he knew for certain about the message sender was that he spoke English fluently, he had an extensive knowledge of twenty-first century computers, and he knew that Torchwood was the organization most likely to stand against a planetary invasion. Good for profiling, but no good for getting closer to finding him.

"Yes?"

"A message came in to UNIT by post about lunchtime."

"Good."

"You know what UNIT is?"

"If we're about to review all the things I know that you don't know I know, we're in for a very long conversation.

"They're working covertly to trace the message's origin."

"They won't find anything."

"I'm emailing the message to you with the POI list."

"Thank you."

"Are you really in Wales?"

Sherlock ended the call and opened his email. He quickly perused the list of names before opening the attached picture file of a message made of clipped words and letters pasted onto a piece of paper.

_"Chancellor lives now. Police or military interference will be last of Straw. Show cooperation and terms will be sent."_

"No signature," Sherlock mused. "No instructions on how to 'show cooperation.' 'Last of Straw' play on words..."

"May I see?" Hart held out his hand and Sherlock passed him the phone. "Does that idiom work only in English—the last straw bit?"

Sherlock turned to Tosh's computer and searched for "straw that broke the camel's back." "Good," he said excitedly. "Very good. There are variations on this proverb in many languages, but most of them don't involve straw, but water."

"Water breaks the camel's back?"

"No. The straw breaks the camel's back—the last drop makes the cup overflow. The saying came from an Arabic proverb..."

"So, the kidnappers are either Arabic, English, or well-versed in English."

"Not or, _and._ In any case, it's extremely unlikely that we're dealing with China or Russia, for instance."

"Thank God for that."

"More fun when it's an internal affair anyway."

Hart gave Sherlock another look that suggested arousal—or perhaps cannibalism. It was hard to say for certain.

Sherlock took his phone back and prepared a text for Mycroft: _Must see message closer. Tonight?_

"So, you're going to look at the list and see who's likely to be in on this, right? All the native Englishmen on the list?"

Taking a second look at the list, Sherlock commented, "It does narrow the list considerably. I hope this doesn't turn out to be too easy."

A moment later, a text arrived from Mycroft: _Can arrange. Come 2 my office._

Hart read the message over Sherlock's shoulder. "Can I come?"

"I can't stop you from going wherever you wish to go," Sherlock answered, tapping Hart's wrist strap with one finger. "And I doubt it would take you long to find out where Mycroft's office is, so... yes, I suppose you could. Or did you mean _may_ I come?"

After a pause, Hart sighed. "You're a grammar Nazi."

"My corrections annoy you; your errors annoy me. Why should I be the only one to suffer?"

"May I come?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. I prefer to take John."

"I'm John."

"Allow me to clarify: John _Watson._"

"Fine."

* * *

_Mysterious messages... intrigue... drama! Okay, over-hype. Just leave a comment to let me know you're not getting bored. xD  
_


	8. Authorized

_Just want to mention how pleased I am that my story "Spare Wheel" has over 200 reviews now. ^^  
_

_Don't worry, Bella—no 456. I kinda hate the 456. Decent villain, but I felt like Children of Earth should have been the two-part finale of a much longer season.  
_

_Anyway, if I have any British culture inaccuracies, I apologize. I'm not about to hop on a plane to do research for a story I'm not being paid for. xp Enjoy the chapter.  
_

* * *

Chapter 8: Authorized

X X X

"There was that alien who went around killing men by having sex with them..." Jack reviewed.

Gwen grimaced. "Don't remind me."

"And there's always cybermen... they don't want humans dead; they want to upgrade them."

"Message doesn't sound like theirs. Nothing about upgrading or deleting. I don't suppose it could be those nasty little fairy things?"

Jack shook his head. "This isn't their style. They don't send written messages—they use the natural elements to warn people, or they send messengers."

"What about that alien with the mind-reading pendant? The one that seduced Tosh?"

"Mary killed humans... it seems like her kind wouldn't care much if they lived or died, but they might like a surrender if they didn't have a very strong army to work with. Or maybe they want slaves."

"Okay, so Philoctetes; first possibility. How about those ones that sent the sleeper agents?"

"I guess since their strategy didn't work, they might have changed plans, but it seemed like they wanted to kill the humans more than conquer them."

"True." Gwen waited while Jack flipped through some old files. "Remember the 'Pharm'?"

Jack paused. "Yeah... that Copley guy that killed Owen. The first time."

"Right. He had a few different alien species in there, didn't he? When it was all over, we disposed of those specimens. What if some of their homeworlds were aware of their locations? Supposing one of them might want revenge on their scout's capture and execution?"

"We didn't stop to get real profiles on them, did we?"

"I don't know; maybe we should check Tosh's computer. Ianto might have put something in his diary." She made a note on the list. "What else?"

"There's always Nostrovites. They'd certainly want the female population alive."

Gwen shuddered. "Ugh, that was so bad. I don't want to think about it. Anyway, they were more the hunting in pairs sort... not the forming an army sort."

"Yeah, you're right."

Hart knocked on the open door of Jack's office. "Sherlock's ready to go home for the day."

"Good," said Gwen, getting up. "I'll have a go at Tosh's computer and see if I can find anything on the Pharm specimens."

When she was gone, Hart came to sit on the edge of Jack's desk.

"Need something?" Jack asked without looking up.

"I was just wondering..."

"Spit it out."

"Have you gotten any kind of reading on Sherlock?"

"Reading?"

"He's inscrutable, right?"

Jack smiled. "Is your flirt engine stalling?"

"It's not funny. I mean, I haven't tried very hard yet, but I don't know what direction to go. I've just sent a little look or comment here and there, but there's no response. I mean _nothing."_

"He could be asexual, you know."

"Or straight," Hart said dismally.

"I don't think he's straight. He barely looks at Gwen."

"I'm sure he saw her wedding ring. Besides, he barely looks at Ianto. Doesn't prove anything. God, I hope he's not asexual."

"Maybe he's already taken. He's got that roommate, right?"

"Watson? Ha... if they're lovers, they're hiding it well. And Watson doesn't seem like a very good actor to me."

"Maybe it's unrequited."

"Hm... I hadn't thought of that."

Jack looked up at last. "Why don't you pump Watson a little? See what you can find out. Maybe Sherlock had a lover before and it didn't go well, or maybe there's someone he doesn't get to see often, or something like that. The companion he's with the most is bound to know the most, right?"

"Yeah, you may be right. I'll try that. Thanks."

"Anything to keep you occupied."

X X X

Jack took Ianto's hand as they left the restaurant. "Did you like it?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was great. You didn't have to pay for mine, though."

"I know. I wanted to."

"Will you let me pay next time?"

_He's afraid of becoming "the girl" in this relationship._ Jack smiled. "How about if you pick the place next time, and you pay?"

"Okay."

"Want me to drop you off, or you want to come back with me?" _There he goes getting flustered,_ Jack thought. _He should be over that by now... but it's still cute._

"Or you could come to mine. You never come over."

Jack was a little surprised at the offer. "I've been to your place..."

"Barely set foot inside."

"Okay then—we'll go to yours."

Ianto gave Jack a quick tour when they arrived, making sure he knew where all the important rooms were—and the condoms.

"It's nothing grand, but it's home," he concluded.

"It feels like a home. I miss that." Jack gave Ianto a smile and put one arm around him. "The tour was kind of quick, though. I think I need to see the bedroom again. Up close."

"The bedroom or the bed?" Ianto asked, raising one eyebrow. He didn't wait for an answer. "Long as we do get some actual _sleep_ tonight. If it's more decoding and research tomorrow, we'll need it."

"We'll sleep. It's not late yet; plenty of time. Let me give you a tour of my own..."

X X X

Sherlock took the threatening note in his gloved hand. "I take it there were no prints to be had off this?"

"None," Mycroft confirmed.

The first word of the message, "Chancellor," was made up of the word "chance," a double L and the word "or." Sherlock studied each fragment in turn. "What sort of glue was used to affix the clippings to the paper?" he asked.

"I haven't had it analyzed. Is it important?"

"It is if we want the other half of the clues."

"The other half?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed. John could be so slow... "Each of these clippings is a clue. The other side of each of them is another clue. I need to know what kind of glue was used so that I may remove the clippings from the paper without damaging them."

"My people are through examining it and taking photographs," said Mycroft. "You may do what you like with it, but please don't destroy it entirely."

"I won't unless it's absolutely necessary." Sherlock slipped the paper back into its protective covering. "St. Bartholomew's, John."

"Right," John said, trying to keep up and not be too inquisitive. Sherlock appreciated the effort.

"Let me know what you find," Mycroft called after them.

Under the hovering stares of both John and Molly Cooper, Sherlock analyzed the tiny sample of glue he had chipped off from one of the more generously anointed clippings. He first studied the sample under the microscope and then subjected it to several chemical tests.

"Diphenylmethane-diisocyanate," he said at last.

"What's that?" asked John, clearly overwhelmed by the large words.

"It's a toxic chemical found in some glues. Not white glue, but certainly in wood glue. The presence of homologues further supports this theory. I can probably use a scalpel to separate the clippings from the paper, but I'll want some xylene on hand in case I need to remove more of the glue."

Molly handed him a scalpel and hurried away to find the requested chemical.

"I'll make us some coffee," said John.

"Tea for me," said Sherlock. "I had coffee offered me all day at the Hub."

Slowly but steadily, Sherlock removed the clippings and studied their backs. On the back of "chance" he found "ps" in white title script on a blue background. On the back of "ll" there was only an unhelpful "in" in black on white. On the back of "or" he found "by" in the same white lettering as "ps," but with a paler blue background.

John returned with coffee and tea and froze in the doorway. "Good lord, what is that smell?"

"Xylene," Sherlock said without looking up from his work.

"Molly, do those windows open? We'll all be high as kites sitting in this."

Molly went to prop open a window while John set down the mugs and turned on an electric fan in the corner.

"If you call dizziness and confusion a high," Sherlock muttered disdainfully.

"Find anything yet?" John asked, putting the tea in front of Sherlock and pulling his chair back a couple of feet to distance himself from the chemical fumes.

"The kidnappers are not international terrorists."

"Good." John was silent a moment. Then, "And how do you know that?"

"Wood glue. Clipping out letters and words to make a threatening message, and you choose wood glue? It's hardly the first thing you would purchase for such a job. The kidnappers used whatever was handy. Wood glue suggests that at least one of them is operating from a garage, woodworking shop or other such workplace. If they planned this well ahead of time, they would have purchased the glue ahead of time, or gotten some from a conveniently located shop. If you wanted glue for paper, would you choose wood glue?" Sherlock said all this quite quickly, and John's eyes began to glaze about halfway through.

"No..."

"No." Sherlock went back to his work.

"What about the clippings?" asked Molly, coming to stand behind Sherlock. She pinched her nose to lessen the irritation of the xylene. "Find anything from them?"

"One or more of the kidnappers is an extremely untidy procrastinator, an avid rail bird, or both. He might even be a bookie."

"Horse racing?" asked John.

Sherlock handed his phone to John, who scrolled through the article on the screen. "228th Epsom Derby dominated by an impressive five-length win by Peter Chapple-Hyam trained colt Authorized." John looked up. "You think some of the clippings are from a race form?"

Sherlock held up the "chance" clipping so John could see the "ps" on the back. "The word 'chance' is often used in gambling environments such as horse racing. I suspect this clipping came from the inside first page of a brochure or racing form which had the word 'Epsom' on the front. Epsom Downs. The 'or' in Chancellor appears to have come from the same page. The 'by' on the back most likely came from the word 'derby' and the 'or' from 'Authorized.' So, it's most likely an advertisement for the 2008 Epsom Derby with a review of the 2007 derby inside. The Epsom Derby takes place in June—we're well past it now. So, this message-making material is not something that a foreigner is likely to have, or to acquire on entering the country..."

"Wait a minute," said John. "I agree the font looks the same, but the background is two different shades of blue. Why do you think they came from the same pamphlet?"

Sherlock took his phone back and navigated quickly. "Look at this picture. Notice anything?" He waited impatiently, knowing he had to give John enough time to process the obvious.

"The sky... it looks paler near the horizon."

"Precisely. And what looks more impressive on a racetrack brochure than the image of powerful horses thundering down the turf under a brilliant blue sky?"

"That's remarkable," Molly put in. "Did you think of that straight off?"

Ignoring her, he went on, "So, our horse-loving abductor saves old brochures and such. Is it because he commits these crimes often and wants plenty of material around? No, far more likely that he saves them to research the sport of kings over time. He's an analyst. A regular player."

"Brilliant," said John. "We've got wood glue and Epsom Downs... if the rest of these clippings are that helpful, we can profile the kidnappers, triangulate their location..."

"Have you been watching Ashes to Ashes again, John?"

John shut his mouth and glared.

A couple of hours later, Sherlock stood and stretched. "You'd better go back to Baker Street," he told John. "It's getting late."

"And let you stay up all night? I don't think so. You're working two jobs now; you need to sleep, too."

"Molly, make him see reason."

"Yes," John agreed. "Molly, make him see reason."

A technician stepped into the lab. "Sorry, but we've got to close the lab now."

"This is a police matter," Sherlock informed him.

"Yes, it always is with you, isn't it?" the technician snarked.

"You don't really need to work here," Molly pointed out. "You can probably work faster at home anyway, with a computer to research on."

Sherlock hated letting others persuade him, but he knew Molly was right. "Very well," he said, gathering up loose clippings and sealing them in a bag. He pretended not to notice John's appreciative look at Molly. _He'll try to get me to turn in as soon as we get home. Oh well... I can pretend to go to bed and get up again when he's asleep._

X X X

When Hart arrived at Baker Street the next morning he was greeted with an interesting sight. Sherlock was slumped over the kitchen table crowded with books, papers, a laptop, a phone, a scalpel, a teapot, a mug, a paintbrush, a sponge, a tablet, a pen, and a jar containing an unknown substance. John sat on the sofa eating breakfast off the end table. There was an acrid scent in the air.

"Had to put a lid on that stuff when I came down," John informed him. "If he sat in the fumes all night, there's no telling what state he's in."

Hart leaned in to look at the messy notes on the tablet. _"Wood glue. 2008 Epsom Derby brochure. Subaru Legacy Outback—2007 issue Top Gear magazine. The Invisibles—April or May 2008, What's on TV magazine. News clipping 314—Daily Mail March 2008._

"That's a lot of clues for one note. Looks like your kidnappers are all-Brit."

John nodded. "Just as Sherlock thought. Look, I doubt he'll be ready to go anywhere for a while, and this case is of national importance, so maybe you'd better go on without him today."

"I could come back later and take him back in time."

"I doubt he'd like that."

"No. I suppose not." Hart leaned on the table and studied Sherlock's sleeping face. He wanted to touch him, but he didn't care to have John observe such a gesture. "Tell me something—was there a great tragedy in Sherlock's past?"

"Tragedy?"

"It's just... the way he talks about his family. His mother in particular..."

"Sherlock never talks about his family."

"...She's the one who taught him violin, you know. And then there's his time at school..."

John looked utterly bewildered, and even a bit alarmed. "He told you this?"

"Yes. He's sort of detached about it, but sort of... wistful, too." _He's swallowing it. Every word._

"I... I don't know. He's not one to let his feelings out often." John frowned in thought. "I don't remember him ever mentioning his family... except, he said they were country squires or something."

"Was he spurned by a lover or something?"

"No, surely not... Sherlock isn't the sort to have a lover."

"Not even in the past?" Hart could see John's confidence wavering.

"I don't think so... I mean, he and Mycroft are both that way—not just keeping their emotions to themselves, but seeming _not to have any._ I'm sure that can't be entirely true, but it's projected very strongly."

"No love interest, then?"

"No, certainly not."

Hart felt some gloom coming on. "He's asexual, isn't he?"

"Does it matter?"

"It could."

John folded his arms. "What exactly does Torchwood _do_, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm just asking as a concerned friend; it's got nothing to do with Torchwood," Hart assured him. Then he sighed. "Has he _ever_ taken a romantic interest in someone?"

John shook his head, but then he stopped suddenly. "Well..."

Sherlock stirred in his sleep.

"Ask me some other time," said John. "You should go before he wakes up, or he'll try to work both cases at once."

"Okay." Out of John's line of vision, Hart subtly brushed Sherlock's shoulder with one hand. _He said to ask him later... he just gave me permission to dig into this._ If John thought Sherlock had been interested in someone before, then there was a chance he could be again. _Challenge accepted._

* * *

_Let the games begin. ^^ If you're liking it, please leave a review to let me know. (I appreciate yours, Bella—but would like to see other people's comments too!)_


	9. Attachments

_Sorry this one took so long. I've been pretty busy. But at least it's longer this time. Again, I apologize if I got any English government stuff wrong. Enjoy! _

_Spoiler Alert: You need to watch Sherlock: Scandal in Belgravia before reading this one if you don't want serious spoilage.  
_

* * *

Chapter 9: Attachments

X X X

Sherlock wasn't happy. He silently accepted the tea and aspirin that John gave him and waited until he had emptied the mug to begin complaining.

"It's nine-thirty. Hart's been and gone, hasn't he?"

"You were out cold," John replied in that daddy-knows-best, I-told-you-so tone.

"Yes... thanks for that."

"It's not my fault!"

"If you'd been down here helping me, you could have kept me awake." Sherlock massaged his temples, trying to mute the drumming of the heavy metal band in his brain.

"I didn't know you were up! And if I had, I'd have been trying to get you to go back to bed."

"Exactly."

John sighed. "Never mind. You can't go to Torchwood now, so you may as well concentrate on the Chancellor, right?"

He was right, but Sherlock didn't care to acknowledge it. "I've _been_ concentrating on the Chancellor." He shuffled the remaining unidentified clippings. "We may have enough evidence to identify one of the kidnappers," he said slowly. He picked up the tablet he'd been taking notes on and held it out to John. "Text Mycroft and have him check the subscriptions of these periodicals and their dates. Surely there can't be many people who subscribed to all of them at the right times."

"Okay... where's your phone?"

Sherlock nodded to the phone's resting place on the table.

"Too much effort for you to hand it to me?"

"I'm thinking."

John sighed again. More like a groan this time. He picked up the phone and began copying the information from Sherlock's notes. "Are you sure all of these are correct?"

Sherlock didn't answer. The question wasn't worth an answer.

"Okay, done."

"Tell me what he says."

"Hasn't had a chance to answer yet."

"When he does."

"Oh, here it is. He says—"

"Will check and let you know?"

"Basically."

"Let me see." Sherlock took the phone and looked at the message: _Chking. Wil let u no._ He shrugged. Close. Very close. "Now we have to wait. What can we do in the meantime? I know! We can work on Torchwood's problem... oh, wait. I can't go to Torchwood because _someone_ let me miss my ride."

John rolled his eyes. "There's got to be something you can do without running off to Wales."

"Yes. Yes, there is. UNIT."

"What is UNIT?"

"Unified Intelligence Taskforce. Secret organization. Used to be under jurisdiction of the UN. Now they're more or less freelance, but they still answer to the higher powers."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning they formulate their own plans, but the UN can still intervene to bollocks them up."

"Okay..."

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his hand as a new message came in. "Another one from Mycroft. They're going to have a press conference soon to let the public know that the Chancellor is missing and to let the kidnappers know that we are trying to cooperate with them."

"So they're going to know that we know that they're not foreign terrorists."

"Right. Press conference is at one o'clock." He checked the time on his phone. "We can't hope to get very far in the case before then—it's scarcely more than three hours."

John stepped toward the door. "We can try, though."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. What John Watson lacked in intelligence, he made up in loyalty. "We certainly can. Text Mycroft on the way; I'm going to need his security clearance."

X X X

"Must be serious if Mycroft Holmes sent his little brother over," observed Kate Stewart, head of scientific research at UNIT. "Have you got anything for us?"

"I was more hoping the other way round," Sherlock said frankly. "I understand you've attempted to trace the message posted to you."

"Attempted is a good word. We know it was posted in Surrey. There are no identifiable fingerprints. The paper and envelope were the sort that are easily come by all over the country. The address was printed on a laser printer. There was no return address."

"Epsom's in Surrey, isn't it?" asked John. "Epsom Downs?"

"The racetrack?" Kate asked, raising one eyebrow. "Yes, I believe it is."

"Better than nothing," said Sherlock. "Now, I understand that UNIT is acquainted with Torchwood."

Kate glanced around. "Yes... but not many of the lower ranks even know of its existence. A few things leaked out during the Harold Saxon affair, of course."

"What exactly happened to Mister Saxon anyway?" asked John. "There's talk of alien abduction and conspiracy and a lot of rot..."

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Stay on topic, won't you?"

"Sorry."

Sherlock turned back to Kate. "Have you communicated with Torchwood lately?"

"No," she answered. "Do you think we need them onboard for this?"

"Probably not. Not yet, anyway. But I would like to see records of your latest communications with them. It could be important."

She looked skeptical, but she didn't question him. "I'll see what I can do," she said.

He knew John was burning with questions, but he was doing better about keeping quiet. Every time he wanted to ask something, he instead took to fiddling with his visitor's badge or checking his phone.

Sherlock scanned over the list of communiques that had passed between UNIT and Torchwood in the last year. "I don't think this is what I need," he said at last. "It could be hidden here, but I'm guessing that it wasn't planned this far in advance. I'd like to see all emails sent out of UNIT in the last week."

Kate stared at Sherlock a few moments, as if waiting for him to realize what a ridiculous request he had made. When he merely stared back at her, she said, "I don't even have authorization to look at those myself, let alone show them to you."

"Then, I suggest you get authorization. Do I need to put Mycroft in touch with your superior?"

She didn't back down. Sometimes the intelligent people could be even more annoying than the dull-witted ones. "Since I can't see what it could have to do with the Chancellor's abduction, yes. I think you better had, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft was uncooperative, as usual. But eventually he decided that his brother's methods were for the greater good, and Sherlock's request was granted.

"There's a good half hour wasted," Sherlock muttered as he sat in front of a new computer and looked at the master email log. He glanced at the right-hand corner clock. "Press conference is in fifteen minutes."

John pulled another chair over next to him and sat. "Well, you knew we wouldn't have this thing solved by then."

"No, but the ball will be back in their court, John. However helpless we may be, their request for a show of cooperation gave us a tiny scrap of control. We're about to lose it."

"Um, excuse me," said the man who had ushered them into the room, "I'm Brandon Seal, and this is my usual workstation—if you need any help, I'm here to assist."

Sherlock gave him the once-over. _Young for this job—genius. Small, square-frame glasses—geek. Star Trek insignia tiepin__—nerd. Flare__d jeans—hipster. __Anti-uniform—nonconformist, gets away with murder in the wor__kplace, again genius._ "Thank you. I'm sure you'll be a great help to our investigation."

"Is it true the Chancellor's been kidnapped?"

"It's true. Tell me, Brandon: is it possible to hide an email you send out?"

"Hide it? Uh, sure... You can delete it from your sent folder, or..."

"No, no. I mean if you not only don't want a record of your sent message, but you also don't want the recipient to see where it came from."

"An anonymous email? Yeah, you could use a remailer to hide your email address from the recipient. Getting rid of it from your sent box is a simple matter of deleting it and then deleting it from your recycle bin. That's not a hundred percent guarantee, though... Better to use multiple remailers to be sure it can't be traced back to you. And even stuff deleted from your recycle bin can be recovered if you know how."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm guessing you know how."

"Oh, sure." Brandon shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger.

_Total hipster. _Sherlock glanced at John. His companion's eyes were beginning to glaze a little. "Brandon, does UNIT keep coffee available?"

"They got it on tap," Brandon replied with a small chuckle.

"John, why don't you go get us all some coffee?"

"Okay." John set out willingly.

"Now... supposing you wanted to send an attachment, but you didn't want the recipient to know where it came from? Is it possible to send something that will appear as an attachment in an unrelated email?"

"Hm." Brandon removed his glasses and tapped the end of one bow against his mouth. Sherlock suspected he had practiced that thoughtful expression in front of a mirror. "That would take something a little fancier. Huh. May I...?" He gestured toward the computer and Sherlock moved aside for him.

X X X

"How's it going?" John asked, carefully setting two Styrofoam cups of coffee on the desk and sitting down to drink his own.

"Pretty good," Brandon said, not looking up. "I think we've about got the formula. Just going to send a tester..." The computer whiz finished typing something and made a few clicks of the mouse. "Okay, lemme just check. Uh... I'll send an email to myself here... okay." He sat back and waited a moment. "There it is. Open 'er up... Yes!"

John leaned in. "What are we looking at?"

"My friends, we are looking at a phantom attachment," Brandon said with excited dramatization.

"Um... brilliant. What's it for?"

"Never mind; this is an important breakthrough," Sherlock assured him. "Now, Brandon, if someone at UNIT had sent one of these attachments in the last week or so, could you find it?"

"Hm. Maybe... If they used their UNIT email account, I probably could. If they sent it from an online account, it would be harder. Then again, I might be able to find the file they attached if it was saved to a UNIT computer. If I knew what I was looking for, that is."

"I can give you a place to start. But Brandon, this is all top secret. You can't even let your coworkers here at UNIT know what I have you working on, understand? Not even your superiors. Can I count on you?" _He'll go for it. He's lapping up the intrigue, not to mention the attention._

"You can count on me, Mr. Holmes."

"Good man." Sherlock followed it up with a pat on the shoulder that he could see was welcome gratification to the young man's nerd sensibilities. He took out his phone. "I'm going to send you the attachment I'm trying to find. When this is over, you'll need to erase all evidence that you ever saw it. Understand?" Probably completely unnecessary, but Brandon would love the added secrecy.

"I understand."

"All right. Start investigating the cleverest ones first. Someone you think might have this sort of computer knowledge. Someone good_—_very good."

Brandon nodded. "I can think of a couple right off. UNIT has quite a few tech experts that could probably figure this out."

"Excellent. Get started as soon as you can."

"I can start now. I'm on orders to help you as long as you're here."

When Sherlock returned to his inbox, he saw that Mycroft had sent him a video. "It's the press conference," he reported, holding the phone out so John could see. He turned up the volume and played the video.

After the opening speech, the members of the press began their barrage of questions, and Prime Minister Brown did his best to answer them.

"Who is responsible for this abduction?"

"At this time, the abductors are still unknown to us. We've taken measures to find out who these people are, but there are no solid answers yet."

"Is this a ransom demand? What do they want?"

"Thus far, the kidnappers have requested only our cooperation. For the time being, we plan to give it. The Chancellor's safety is our priority."

"Could this be an act of terrorism?"

"Since we do not yet know whom we are dealing with, or the purpose behind the abduction, we cannot verify whether or not we are dealing with terrorists. More information will be released to the press as developments are made."

Sherlock closed the video.

"It's terrible that there's so little to go on," said Brandon.

Sherlock nodded toward the computer. "Just keep to your work, Brandon. Every moment counts."

X X X

_Have list of subscribers. Sending._

"Brandon, Doctor Watson and I will have to leave in a moment. I want you to continue your investigation as you're able and contact me the moment you find anything."

Brandon nodded. "I will. And you don't need to worry. No one will know I'm investigating them."

"What did Mycroft send you?" John asked as they hurried toward the elevator that would take them to ground level.

"The list of subscribers to the various publications the clippings came from."

"Oh, excellent. How many are there?"

"Four."

"Four? That's all?"

"Taking into account the proper years of publication, only four people subscribed to all the periodicals I identified at the correct times. And only one of them lives near Surrey."

"Then... we have our man?"

"Not so fast. Our evidence is purely circumstantial. We have no proof yet. How would you like to do a bit of reconnaissance for me?"

"Well... what would I need to do?"

"Go to the subscriber's address and observe it from a distance. Talk to people in the neighborhood: the mailman, the people next door, et cetera. Just don't make contact with the current resident. Can you do that?"

"I suppose so, but what will you be doing?"

"I'm going to retrace the Chancellor's route to determine whether or not the car and driver seen that morning were part of the plan."

"Okay. Do you want lunch first?"

Before Sherlock could answer, John spoke again.

"Oh, of course. You're not going to eat right now because it'll disrupt your train of thought, right?"

"It's not that." How could John scramble details so easily? "The digestion process takes blood away from the brain and makes it difficult to work effectively."

John sighed. "Whatever. You suit yourself, but I'm going to stop by the house and eat something proper before I start my mission."

X X X

Hart had almost dozed off when John came back into the flat. As usual, his presence was railed against, but he ignored it.

"Hello, John. Where's Sherlock?"

John groaned. "He's out. Following a lead. What do you want?"

"Had news for him, but it can wait. You told me to ask you later... about Sherlock's sordid past."

"Did I?" With a sigh, John wandered out to the kitchen. "I'm famished."

"That's okay. We can eat and talk at the same time." Hart could see that his assuming manner was really irking John. "Tell you what: why don't we go eat at a nice little pub or something_—_I'll pay_—_and we can talk there?"

John paused, leaning on the open refrigerator door. He slammed the door with finality. "Okay, let's go."

It didn't take too long to get John talking about Sherlock's past. After all, Sherlock was one of the few things they had in common.

"I'm surprised he told you as much as he did," John said, doing a good job of hiding his annoyance. "He's not um... not a very open person."

"Well, no. I think I got as much out of him as I could at the time." Hart leaned toward John over his drink. "I asked you before if he'd had a romantic attachment. And you were going to say something about it..."

"Right. Um... there was this woman. _The_ woman."

Hart grinned and leaned on his hands. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"The Woman was her professional title... She was a... a..."

Hart's grin widened. "A lady of the evening?" he offered.

"And then some. She stole some very important information and Mycroft brought Sherlock in to get it back from her."

"And he fell for her?" _Mm, he likes the edgy type. I can work with that._

"No. Well, I wouldn't say 'fell for her.' I think it's just that she's the first woman he'd met that could really match wits with him, you know? She intrigued him."

_Damn... I'm above average, but he's off the charts. My mind might not be enough._ "So, who broke it off?"

"The weren't officially together. They never went on a date or anything..."

"What? Why the hell not?"

"She kept inviting him to dinner, but he just... ignored it. She texted him now and then; ended most of them with 'Let's have dinner.'"

Hart felt like purring. "She sounds like a piece of work. Where does she live?"

"She doesn't."

"Eh?"

"She's dead. Sherlock doesn't know... he thinks she's hidden somewhere safe in America."

"Oh... so, for all he knows, she broke it off?"

"I told you, they weren't_—_it was just a... thing."

"What was her name?"

"Irene. Irene Adler. You can't tell Sherlock I told you about her. And you especially can't tell him she's dead. Understand?"

"Got it." Hart took a swig from his glass and moved it aside to make room for the waitress to set their plates on the table. "So, all they ever did was talk? Compare brains? There was no hand holding, no kissing, no... rendezvouses? Is it pronounced 'rendezvous' like the singular, or is it anglicized, 'rendezvous-ez'?"

John shook his head. "No. I mean... I don't know about the_—_rendezvous thing. But no, they didn't hold hands or kiss or anything. There was no..." John rubbed the back of his neck. His face was flushed.

"You look uncomfortable. If there was no... then why do you look like that? You fancied her too, didn't you?"

"No!" John looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed his raised voice. "Look, there was this one time... when we first met her. She walked in..."

"And?" Hart prompted.

"She was stark naked."

Hart resumed his grin. "Oh, now I understand! That's how _I _should have met Sherlock! It's no wonder we got off on the wrong foot."

John's flush deepened.

"So, how did he react to that?"

"He didn't. I mean, there was no reaction at all that I could see. It was like... like he was looking at a stone wall and trying to guess what sort of cement was used, you know? Sort of... curious, but bored."

"Well, that settles it. He's not straight."

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions," John said quickly.

"Why? Is that subterfuge? Do you have inside information that he's gay?"

"No." It was almost a squeak. John followed it up with a much stronger, controlled "No. It's just that Sherlock doesn't really react to _anything_ in a... in a sexual way. The closest thing is when he's very close to solving a case. He gets very excited and nothing could tear him away from it. That's all he gets off on. He once told me that he considers himself to be 'married to his work.' I doubt that he'll ever fall in love."

"Well, maybe if he knew 'The Woman' was dead, he'd move on and start looking at people differently."

"Don't you dare."

Hart found himself taking John seriously for the first time since he met him. There was a fierceness in the doctor's gaze. "All right, I won't. But I'm not giving up by any means."

* * *

_Hope you liked it. Don't forget to leave some feedback. ^^_


	10. Alien

_This chapter's just a little Torchwood malarkey with a teaser at the end. Sorry. No, not really. :p  
_

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Chapter 10: Alien

X X X

"Are we winning?" Hart asked, wheeling his chair over to look over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Always," Sherlock answered, advancing his pawn on the screen of Toshiko's computer.

"What level is that?"

"Master."

"Should have known. So, are you taking a break from the alien invasion thingamy? Because I think the latest message should have advanced things, shouldn't it?"

"I have a man on it."

Hart scooted closer. "Do tell."

Sherlock took a glance around to be sure none of the others were within hearing distance, and that his mouth wasn't angled toward any cameras. "I've sent the phantom attachments to a man in another special ops organization. He's trying to find the source."

"Nice. Think he'll succeed?"

"There is a high probability. I'd say about thirty percent."

Hart grinned. "I like a man who considers thirty percent to be high."

"Torchwood, the SIS, UNIT, the CIA, Interpol," Sherlock listed. "These are the institutions most likely to have English-speaking computer geniuses in their employ. A few are freelance, of course_—_if the expert I'm looking for is, then we may not be able to find him. I don't think the messages came from Torchwood: the agents here are too loyal to each other. The messages had a sinister, yet natural feel to them_—_I believe the author to be English. That rules out most of the CIA. Left with the SIS, UNIT and a section of Interpol, those who know about Torchwood are in the minority. Those most likely to know are at UNIT. I call my chances roughly thirty percent." He moved his bishop to take one of the computer's knights.

"So... you don't believe that the threat is from alien invasion at all?"

"I didn't say that. But the message itself... no. A human wrote it, and a human sent it to Torchwood by way of a phantom attachment. What alien has such a knowledge of Earth computers that it could operate this way? If there are aliens involved, they're working with at least one human."

"I see." Hart leaned back in his chair. "So, um... how's the missing Chancellor case coming?"

"Well. John found that Mr. A. McBride of Sutton hasn't been home much in the last week or two. I believe him to be the man who posted the message to UNIT. He is clearly not working alone, and probably not the leader of the operation. I've also found that the mysterious driver of the car which took the Chancellor away from his morning appointment was indeed in on the plot. He drove the Chancellor off the main roads to a place where he could be passed off to an accomplice. The driver might have been McBride, but I highly doubt it."

"You know where he was taken?"

"Roughly."

"And you know one of the men in on it. Have you told your brother?"

"Of course not. He'd have McBride arrested and grilled for information_—_which he'd never get. The kidnappers might panic and kill the Chancellor."

"Mm. Quite right."

Sherlock checked the computer's king with his rook. "What have you been working on today?"

"Oh, some little pipsqueak popped through the rift today. Jack wants to document it, kill it, study it. Ianto wants to try to release it somewhere. I think Gwen wants to keep it."

"When you say 'pipsqueak...'?"

"Definitely not an Earth species. You wanna see?"

Sherlock frowned at the computer screen. _Checkmate in four moves. Boring._ "All right."

"Taking the rookie to see the prisoner," Hart called to Jack as they passed his door.

"Okay. Don't let your guard down and stay together. We don't know much about this guy yet."

"I'm not convinced it's a guy," Hart rejoined with a smirk.

X X X

Hart watched Sherlock's face in amusement. "Unearthly, eh?"

"It is." Sherlock stared, his blue eyes following the creature's strange movements.

"He doesn't seem very bright. Running round the cell over and over... covering the exact same ground as if he thinks he hasn't seen it before..."

"He hasn't."

Hart turned a quizzical look on Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"Look at it. He's not just covering the exact same ground... his very footfalls are identical. He's being systematic. He knows very well that it's the same ground, yet he goes over and over it very urgently. Because something is different each time."

"What? What's different? Nothing's moving in there_—_he's all alone..."

"He's moving. He's changing. How often have you been trying to listen to someone talking, but the sight of something else distracted you?"

"A lot..."

"And yet, when the distraction was over, you found that you could go back over what was said in your mind until you understand it enough to answer?"

"Yes, that's happened..."

"Each time the creature covers this ground, he assesses it with a different sense."

"But..." Hart's eyes widened. "That's impossible! He's repeated the pattern twice since we got down here, and he's been doing this for hours... That would mean that he has..."

"Hundreds of senses to our five."

"Oh my god..."

"That little fellow may be fluffy and cute, but he is the most dangerous creature I've ever seen."

"Oh god. What the... Jack!" Hart turned toward the stairs. He heard Sherlock following him.

Once Sherlock explained his observations to Jack, voices began to increase in volume.

"My first instinct was right: shoot first, study later."

"Jack, you can't!" Gwen protested. "He hasn't done anything to us."

"For all we know, he's the one who was sending us threats. He has to be neutralized. Now."

"Can't we give it a chance?" asked Ianto.

"Give it a chance? Any chance we give it will be putting our world in danger."

"What do you think?" Gwen appealed to Hart.

"Me? Well..." Hart was a little surprised that he had been asked for his opinion. "Um... I know I don't want to go anywhere near it again. But if you lot want to try something foolish, far be it from me to not take over the Hub when you're gone."

Sherlock blinked. Hart could tell that the sentence hadn't ended how Sherlock had thought that it would.

"We don't even know for certain that Sherlock's right about this," Ianto said.

"True," said Gwen. "Let's have him test his theory. Let him go down and see what it does, and we'll all watch..."

"Look." Sherlock pointed to the observation screen. "He's stopped."

Ianto relaxed. "That means he's given up trying to get out, right? He'll be calmer now."

Sherlock's eyes narrowing told Hart that the detective wasn't reassured.

"How about it?" Hart asked. "Do you think it's calming down?"

"I don't think he was ever panicking. I think he's done with his assessments and has gone into the planning phase."

"Think we should kill it?"

After a pause, Sherlock said, "I want to go down and try to communicate with it."

"We don't know what it can do," said Jack. "It might kill you."

"If I miss this opportunity, living may seem overrated."

"There!" Gwen exclaimed, as if she had won some important point. "He wants to go, Jack. Let him try."

Jack considered. "Okay... but I'm going to seal off the cell block while you're down there. You'll be completely cut off. If I feel that it's too big a threat, I can vaporize the prisoner in his cell_—_but _only_ in his cell. If he gets out, you're on your own."

"Understood."

Hart watched Sherlock's purposeful walk and felt a tingle run through him. _If I ever doubted before... god, I want him now._

X X X

Sherlock crouched in front of the cell. The fluffy beige creature seemed to stare back at him with its four asymmetrical eyes.

"Hello," Sherlock said in a soft voice. Two of the eyes darted around before coming to rest again. "This is planet Earth. You're in a cell... a sort of cage in a base that specializes in dealing with people who aren't from Earth. Do you understand me?"

"It may not even be sentient," Jack's voice came over the intercom. "Don't be too disappointed if you can't make conversation."

"Maybe I'll have a better chance if you don't interrupt me," Sherlock snapped over his shoulder before returning his attention to the alien. "You don't have to be afraid. I know you're a prisoner here, but I won't hurt you. I'm sorry we don't have a more comfortable place for you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The two active eyes continued roaming while he spoke. When he was done, they became stationary, and then the other two began to glow.

Sherlock suddenly felt a strange sensation, like his insides were being scrambled and shifted back into place in an instant. He fell forward onto his knees.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

Sherlock steadied himself. "Yes, Jack... I'm all right. You definitely have a sentient life form on your hands."

"What did he do?" came Hart's voice.

"I haven't the slightest idea. But somehow he's let me know that he understands the gist of what I've said to him. Also, he's hungry. And he's worried about his family."

"You got all that from a shiver? What could I give you with a_—_"

"Shut up," said Jack.

"I'm not used to your methods of communicating," Sherlock told the yellowish creature in front of him. "I hope you'll be patient. I don't know if there's a way to get you home. Can you tell me what planet you're from?"

Again, Sherlock felt the strange sensation, but he was more prepared this time. "What's a planet? It's... we're on one now. It's a great round thing that has a sun and sometimes a moon, and..."

"The planet revolves around the sun, the moon revolves round the planet," Gwen said helpfully.

"Don't give him a load of unimportant details," Sherlock snapped, chaffing at the concept John Watson had made such a big deal over some time ago.

_You mean the sky?_

"No... it's completely different... you see the sun in the sky, but it's actually very far away..." He looked up in frustration. "He has no concept of space. How do I explain that to him?"

"How does he understand what you're saying?" asked Ianto.

"He seems to be sensing my meaning rather than understanding my words_—_I might not even need to speak for him to understand me. He's not saying words to me either... I just know what he means."

"So it is a he?" asked Jack. "We weren't sure."

"I think so."

"I'm coming down there," said Gwen. "I'll help you talk to it."

"My colleague is coming down," said Sherlock. "She can help me explain things to you. What shall we call you?"

_I am Watchful._

"I'm Sherlock. The woman's name is Gwen. Did you meet her before?"

_I don't remember._

"We hit him with a tranquilizer pretty quick," Jack put in.

Sherlock gave Watchful a sympathetic look.

_Did they want to hurt me?_

"No. But they wanted to be sure you wouldn't hurt any of our kind."

_I understand._

Gwen came in and joined Sherlock in front of the cell. "Will he talk to me? I think it's better if you're not the only one."

"I'm not certain what this sort of communication is doing to me; there may be some danger."

"I know the risks; they come with the job." Gwen smiled at the prisoner. "Hello."

Sherlock watched in fascination as Gwen's body trembled unnaturally.

"Oh my god," Gwen gasped. "It's the bloody oddest thing I've ever felt."

"Including sleeping with Owen?" Jack's voice queried.

"Oi, shut up, you!"

"Sorry. Couldn't resist."

"What did he say?" asked Hart.

"Hello, I guess. Something like that. You can do the talking, Sherlock; once was enough. But tell him about the rift. Tell him it's like a door that opens into many places, but not always the place you want it to."

"Watchful, tell me: do you remember when you became lost?" Sherlock asked.

_I was frightened. It's cold here. Strange creatures._

"You came through an opening and fell into our world. We're not sure we can get you back through it."

_Like a tunnel?_

"Sort of, I suppose. You see, we live on this planet called Earth, and you don't belong here at all. But we don't know where you came from."

_You think I came from another planet?_

"Didn't you, though?"

_I've never heard of a planet before, or these bright spots in darkness, or the yellow sphere._

"But... what did it look like where you lived?"

_Hazy white and yellow clouds, good to eat. Nice and hot._

"Good heavens," Sherlock breathed.

"What? What is it?" Gwen demanded.

Sherlock blinked against the bright picture Watchful had put in his mind. "I think... from what he's told me it seems that our friend here may live on a star."

"I've heard of a sentient star," said Jack, "but not one that could support other life."

"It would explain why he doesn't understand the concept of planets and suns," said Ianto. "Even if there are planets orbiting his star, he'd never be able to see them for the star's brightness. His home would be the only thing he knew of. No planets or moons, no outer space_—_to him, nothing would exist outside his home world."

"Could he be lying to you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not unless his kind are better actors than humans."

"You said he was hungry," said Gwen. "What does he eat?"

"Gas. The sort you'd find in a star. And you ought to put a space heater in there for him. Earth is too cold for him."

"May I remind you, he's not a guest," said Jack. "You said yourself that he's dangerous."

"He's not the invader threatening Torchwood. I think that if you give him hospitality, he won't pose any threat. He might even be useful.

"These silly people are afraid of you," Sherlock continued, to Watchful. "But Gwen's going to see to it that you're taken care of until we find a way to send you home."

_Thank you, Handsome._

Sherlock shook his head.

"What is it?" asked Gwen.

"What did you call me?"

_Isn't that what you're called?_

"My name is Sherlock."

_That's what I said._

Sherlock looked to Gwen, bewildered. "He thinks my name is 'Handsome.'"

Gwen giggled.

"It makes sense," said Ianto. Then, after a pause, he went on in a defensive tone, "Sherlock means fair-haired. If this creature understands the connotative meanings of words rather than their denotative meanings, when he says something back to us, it's bound to sound a bit different."

"But he's picking up on the way Sherlock thinks of words, not necessarily what they really mean," Jack pointed out.

Hart laughed. "Either way, he's not wrong. I suppose Sherlock probably thinks of his name as strong and confident, and if he's also got knowledge of the name's meaning in the back of his mind, 'handsome' is a pretty good summation of it."

"What did I tell you her name was?" Sherlock asked Watchful, indicating Gwen.

_Crafty?_

Sherlock couldn't help smiling.

"What did he say?" Gwen demanded.

"Ask him yourself." Sherlock stood. "I ought to be getting back to my other case now. Call me if you get any more messages."

X X X

"You don't seem very concerned with the Torchwood case," John said at breakfast.

"It smacks of hoax. The Chancellor is far more important. Besides, I have Brandon Seal working on it," Sherlock pointed out.

"Ah. So, the UNIT emails had nothing to do with the Chancellor? I couldn't figure out what it was for."

"Nothing whatsoever. UNIT had very little useful information to contribute on the case. But Seal is a valuable resource."

Hart materialized near the door. "Good morning," he greeted.

"Morning," John said grudgingly.

Sherlock looked Hart over. "You had a one-night stand last night," he observed.

Hart looked away.

"With someone I know," Sherlock said, his eyes widening.

"How the devil can you tell these things?" Hart grumbled.

"It was a man, am I right?"

"No point telling you about it, is there? You know everything already."

"I don't _want_ to know," John put in. "Not that anyone cares..."

"Someone of my acquaintance that you hadn't met before," Sherlock went on. He didn't like where his observations were taking him. "Are you hurt?"

"Hurt? Why should I be hurt? Not a scratch on me_—_but you can check if you like."

"If you're not hurt, than he probably gave you a message for me. What did he say?"

"How do you figure that?"

Sherlock's impatience was rising. "Because, if you were hurt, _that_ would be the message. But you don't seem to be, so there must be something else."

"Fine. You're right. He said, 'Tell Sherlock that Jim says hello.' That's all. Now, why do you think he would hurt me?"

John dropped his teacup, which spun on the table until he put his hand out to stop it from falling off the edge. "Jim Moriarty?"

* * *

_I know. I'm evil. Now, you like my chapters, I like your reviews. Fair trade, right? ^^  
_


	11. Acquaintances

_Queen Farli wants me to explain some things about the alien... seriously? How much fake research do I have to do? :p It's magic, okay? Just kidding. I think I have an explanation that will satisfy you. It'll have to be in the next chapter, though.  
_

_This chapter is rated M for Moriarty. xp_

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Chapter 11: Acquaintances

X X X

Hart did not go from the Hub to the pub to pick up a date. He went because Sherlock had gone home early and he was bored. He just wanted a little drink and then to go get some sleep. Really, that was all.

No one there really grabbed his interest, anyway. The only blonde looked ten years older than himself, and the only person flirting with him was a woman whom he suspected was fishing for cab fare. After drooling over Sherlock all day, he wasn't in the mood for annoying games.

After only one drink, he settled his tab and pushed away from the bar. Maybe there was something interesting on television. He pulled open the door and turned sideways to slip past someone standing in the small, dark space between the inner and outer doors. But before he could push the second door open, the stranger had pushed him against the wall and pressed their mouths firmly together.

Never one to question attention, Hart put his arms around the stranger and kissed back, hard. The stranger was a man close to Hart's height. Not muscular, but fit. He smelled like spearmint and pipe tobacco, but not smoke. The mint was in his mouth, too. He'd probably been chewing gum or consuming a mint recently. Emanating from the stranger's hair, there was another rich smell that Hart couldn't quite identify. Some sort of shampoo or conditioner, perhaps. He was creative with his tongue; aggressive, too.

When they came apart for a moment, Hart got out "Good evening" before resuming. The stranger was in a dark suit. The collared shirt underneath felt expensive to Hart's exploring fingers. The tie was real silk. He could feel the stranger's hands slipping under the back of his jacket and then his fingers crawling up over his back.

"Would you like to go somewhere?" the stranger asked at the next opportunity.

"Yes, I'd like that."

"My limo is outside."

Hart hesitated. _Stranger in the night, limousine... sounds too good to be true._ "Can we take a cab? I know a nice hotel nearby."

"I'm versatile."

"I'm sure you are."

They stepped outside where, sure enough, a limousine was parked, engine purring.

"Won't be needing the limo tonight," the stranger told the man standing by the passenger door. "Take the night off."

The man nodded. "Yes, sir."

John signaled a cab and gave the name of the hotel to the driver. He got his first good look at his companion in the light of passing traffic. The stranger had light skin but dark hair and eyebrows. There was a recession to his hairline, but Hart didn't find this a drawback to the man's looks. Five o'clock shadow dusted his otherwise pale features.

"How would you like to do this?" Hart asked, keeping his voice low in case the stranger didn't care to let the cabby know what was going on.

The stranger, however, seemed completely at ease. "You don't have to tell me any more than you want to tell me," he said. His voice was soft and slow. Hart found it pleasantly relaxing.

"Do you do this often?"

"This?" the stranger smiled. "No. Not often. But I'm not unprepared."

"What should I call you?"

"Whatever you like. Pick a name."

"Jack" almost came out of John's mouth before he caught himself. _Better be careful. You never know when something like this will come back to bite you._ "Sherlock" crossed his mind as well, but he controlled himself. "Finn," he said.

"Nice choice. How about Sean for you?"

"That works."

They kept silent the rest of the way. Hart insisted on paying the cabby, correctly thinking that this would prompt "Finn" to insist on paying for the hotel room.

"Nice coat," Finn said, closing the door behind them. "Very Napoleonic."

"Thanks; that's what I was going for. Had it commissioned in France."

"Very nice." There was genuine admiration in his voice.

Hart set his jacket aside and kicked off his boots. "That's a sharp suit."

"Thank you. H. Huntsman."

He knew he was expected to know the name, so he gave an appreciative nod. _Haven't been in this decade long enough to learn much about its fashion,_ he reflected.

Finn carefully laid out his jacket and shoes before unfastening his cuffs. He dropped his watch and cufflinks into one shoe.

_He's so not my type,_ Hart thought. But that was the wonderful thing about flings.

"I've been watching you, you know," Finn said, coming closer and letting Hart pull his tie off and start on his buttons.

"Oh? In the pub?"

"Before that. I followed you there from Baker Street. We have a mutual friend."

Hart was surprised, but his hands didn't falter.

"You know, it's really not fair of you to stalk Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

Finn shrugged out of his shirt and pulled Hart's up over his head. "Well... I was stalking him _first._ So you can understand my annoyance."

Hart half-smiled._ I can't exactly blame him._

"So, I'm stalking Sherlock, you start stalking Sherlock, then I start stalking you. Because when I can't find Sherlock, you're going to meet up with him again eventually. And that's another thing that's unfair: You see him quite a bit. He talks to you civilly, like he does to his little stooge. It's taken me months to get close to him and you get closer in just a couple of days. You see where I'm going here?"

Glancing down at the hand in his pants, Hart replied, "Clearly."

"Not that I blame you. Everyone wants a piece of Sherlock." Finn unzipped Hart's jeans and began sliding them down. "I bet even straight-laced Watson would take it if he was offered. So I figure, what the hell? You want Sherlock, I want Sherlock. But that doesn't mean you and I can't get along, right?"

"Right."

"Good. I'm glad we understand one another." Finn leaned in and ran his lips over Hart's jaw.

Hart took a deep breath, enjoying the scents of his new companion, the stubble brushing his face, and the tension his revelations had brought. He pulled Finn back toward the bed, letting their pants and underwear fall behind them. "Whatever happens between you and Sherlock is your own business," he said, knowing he probably wouldn't feel that way if this man posed a real threat in the future. "And what happens between him and me is mine."

"And what happens between you and me is ours," Finn concluded with a satisfied smile.

"Exactly."

Finn pushed Hart back on the bed and made a trail of rough kisses down his neck and chest. Hart caressed every inch of Finn that he could reach, closing his eyes to concentrate on the arousing contact he was receiving. When it stopped for a moment he opened his eyes to see Finn breaking out the condoms. _He's sure the classiest stalker I've ever had. I guess rich people get bored too,_ he mused.

His rational thoughts petered out when Finn began an efficient blow job. He knew he was getting close when things came to a halt again and Finn lifted Hart's legs up onto his shoulders. There was no request for permission. Hart would have granted it anyway, but it had been a while since he dealt with someone so forceful. He sighed in relief when Finn's hand picked up where his mouth had left off. His hand was firm but not rough.

_Damn, I'm glad he hasn't had any luck getting to Sherlock... I doubt I could steal anyone away from this guy._ Hart panted and tilted his hips so Finn could thrust deeper. "More," he panted. His request was granted instantly and waves of heat crashed over him, sweat breaking out all over his body. He felt so tight; the hand fondling him made him want to scream. He moved more urgently until the scream burst out at last.

Finn came a moment later, but he didn't stop pumping until they had both ridden out their orgasms completely. Then he crawled up beside Hart, propped up a pillow and settled next to him. "That was pretty good, wouldn't you say?"

"Excellent," Hart panted.

"Good. You decide what we do next."

"Okay." He reached for the phone. "Room two-oh-eight. Send up some ice, please. Thank you."

When he hung up, Finn was grinning. "Baby, I can't wait for part two."

Hart slid his arm around Finn and kissed him. "This night's just beginning. Plenty more to see."

X X X

Jim nuzzled Hart's neck. "Hey. Are you awake?" he asked in a tone of childlike innocence.

Hart turned a tired smile on him. "I'm afraid so."

"You look like you could use some coffee."

"That would be nice... but I should go."

"All right; if you're sure." He sat up slowly, letting the sheet slide down off his chest. He knew Hart was watching, remembering, wanting more. He slid off the bed and walked around to start picking up his clothes. "I'll have to get these pressed," he commented, picking up his now-wrinkled pants. He dressed very slowly, letting Hart catch up to him and get done first. When it was time to put on his cufflinks, he held them out to Hart. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Hart fastened the cufflinks and proceeded to help Jim on with his tie. "Thanks for last night," he said.

"Oh, my pleasure. If circumstances were different, I might say we should do this again sometime."

Hart seemed reluctant to leave. "How long have you been following Sherlock?" he asked at last.

"A while." Jim smiled a catlike smile.

"And me?"

"Since before you met him."

"You know my name, don't you?"

"You're not an easy man to track down, but yes. I know your name, Captain."

Hart looked thoughtful as he glanced around the room to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything. "Well, it's been a treat."

"It has." Jim opened the door and let Hart pass through first. "Oh, and by the way: Tell Sherlock that Jim says hello."

"Jim. All right."

X X X

"So, you just trotted on over here," John concluded.

"I went to my flat and took a shower first," Hart retorted.

Sherlock nodded. "You don't normally bother making yourself presentable in the morning. Overcompensation."

"You knew I had a one-night stand because I was neat and tidy?" Hart asked with a smirk.

"With Jim Moriarty..." John put his head in his hands. "It's too ghastly for words."

"What do you care? You never liked me. What's so bad about him anyway?"

"He's Sherlock's arch enemy, that's all."

"Don't be dramatic, John," Sherlock put in.

"I'm not! It's a fact. I mean, who did you think he was?"

Hart crossed his arms. "I can't help it. I liked him. He was the ideal one-night stand. He was posh, polite and good in bed."

"And a killer," said Sherlock.

"Oh? Well, what of it? So am I."

John and Sherlock both looked up at him questioningly.

"There's _loads_ of things you don't know about me. But you never ask, do you?"

"It's kind of strange..." John said, staring up at the ceiling.

"What is?"

"Moriarty being good in bed. That just... doesn't compute."

"That's because you're bloody straight."

"No it isn't... I_—_I mean, I am straight... but that's not why. It's just that I figured he was..." John glanced at Sherlock. "...just not the type to get involved with anyone."

"Never assume. Anyway, we're not 'involved.' We met, we had sex, we parted."

"Oh, you're involved," Sherlock contradicted. "And if you ever meet again, Moriarty won't allow you to depart unscathed a second time. You can be sure of that."

"Fine. Suppose you tell me more about our mutual friend, and I'll tell you more of my past?"

"You said he smelled of tobacco, but not smoke?"

Hart sighed. "Yes. Pipe tobacco. It's nice. Used to keep some around after I quit smoking."

"And he had a limousine. Was it rented?"

"I dunno... maybe?"

"Sherlock, you've got to concentrate on the Chancellor," said John. "And whatever it is that Torchwood has you working on. You can't let Moriarty distract you."

"But he's so _close._ He's watching us. He just sent me a challenge_—_how can I ignore it?" Sherlock was ready to take anything on.

"But that's what he's counting on! He knows you can't resist trying to figure him out. He's probably got a trap waiting and ignoring his challenge is the best thing you can do."

"A trap," Sherlock repeated. The idea was very appealing. "Outsmarting traps is more fun than following clues..."

"You have a duty to your country to not be distracted from..."

"No, I don't."

John looked shocked.

"Catching Moriarty is just as important to this country as getting the Chancellor back. Anyway, you're showing very little faith in my ability to multitask."

"I'd love to _test_ your ability to multitask," said Hart.

"Do you never stop?" asked John. "I mean, really?"

"You just wish you'd thought of it."

"Shut up," said Sherlock. "Hart, what sort of killer are you?"

"Serial opportunistic killer. Not anymore, of course. I'm all reformed now. But I'd see someone who looked like he'd make the universe a better place by leaving it and I'd take him out. Or her. Mostly men, though. So, who is Jim Moriarty?"

"That's a long story."

"I'll put the kettle back on," said John.

X X X

"Such a cool customer," Hart said in admiration. "The criminally insane are so..."

"Fun?" Sherlock suggested.

"I'd have said horrid," said John.

Sherlock, who had been going back and forth between his phone and his laptop while he and John brought Hart up to speed, leaned back in his chair. "Some interesting facts have just come to light in the Chancellor's case... and in the Torchwood problem."

John and Hart waited expectantly.

"Mr. McBride has a past that exists only four years back. Before that we have no records of jobs, residences, traffic tickets, anything. We've compiled a list of his acquaintances, and of all his coworkers, friends and neighbors, there are no relatives."

"Made-up identity," Hart concluded.

"Right. Now, Mr. Seal has contacted me to let me know that he found the phantom attachments sent to Torchwood. They did indeed originate in UNIT."

"So... UNIT's sending Torchwood on a wild goose chase?"

"There's more. Martha Collins, the woman who sent the messages, comes with her own list of acquaintances, of course. She does have family and other connections going back convincingly. But the interesting thing is that she's going out with a man in Scotland Yard. A few years back, McBride was taken in for a misdemeanor and this same officer of the Yard bailed him out."

"The Chancellor and the Torchwood case are connected," John said in surprise. "What does that mean?"

"Hold on," said Hart. "When did you say McBride had that arrest?"

"A few months after he moved to Sutton."

"He's been there a few months, but he already has a police chum who'll bail him out of the lockup? I wouldn't do that for most of my friends. Not that I have many..."

"So, he had to have known him before he came to Sutton," John concluded.

Sherlock nodded. "Well spotted. I think this officer knows McBride's true identity, as well as what's really going on."

"Do we have him brought in?"

"No. That would tell them clearly that we're getting very close. I think that what the kidnappers want is panic... so we're going to give it to them. We're going to let the world know that it's under threat of alien invasion. Then we're going to see what Officer Hughes, Ms. Collins and A. McBride do next. There's something they want out of all this. Now that we know three of the people involved, perhaps we can find out what."

"Brilliant," said Hart. Now, in the meantime can you come back to Torchwood? Watchful doesn't like talking to the rest of us. He wants 'Handsome' back."

John looked baffled, but also like he didn't want to ask.

"Certainly. I'll need to fill Jack in, anyway."

* * *

_Dun dun dun... Getting closer to the bad guys. Leave a review. ^^  
_


	12. Alpha

_Again, I hope I get all my British-isms correct.  
_

_Some Torchwood spoilers for season 2; probably old news to everyone though._

* * *

Chapter 12: Alpha

X X X

"Listen to me," John said while Sherlock was out of earshot, preparing to go to Torchwood with Hart. "Something Moriarty told you made a lot of sense."

"What was that?" Hart asked, finding John's urgent tone interesting.

"He said that he started following you as a way to find Sherlock. Being with you puts Sherlock in danger."

"Don't worry; I'll look after him."

"No. I will. I was managing just fine before you came."

Hart smiled. "Well, well. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever put up a fight for him. Good show."

"Shut up. We've never been anything other than platonic friends, and that's how we both want it. But Moriarty will use you to get to Sherlock. And if he's hurt because of you... well, you'll get hurt because of me, understand?"

"John, how many times in one morning must I ask you not to be melodramatic?"

Hart relished the sight of John's discomfort at finding that Sherlock had overheard the end of their conversation.

"More than once, apparently," John mumbled.

"You ready?" Sherlock asked Hart. "Let's go."

X X X

Sherlock smiled at Watchful. "He seems in much better spirits today."

"How can you tell?" asked Hart.

"He's happy about the space heater," said Gwen. "Much more comfortable. We found that he likes hydrogen..."

"The helium was hilarious," Jack commented. "He inflated like a balloon and went zooming around the cell..."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"He's exaggerating," said Gwen. "But... he did float a little. And vibrated. And couldn't communicate very clearly."

"Watchful, how's the temperature in there? Are you warm enough?"

_I am. This is much closer to the temperature I'm used to._

"But... isn't it much hotter where you're from?"

_Not much. A little._

"He says it's not much hotter there, wherever he came from," Sherlock reported to the others.

"Are you sure he's from a star, then?" asked Gwen.

"It's the only way he could lack a concept of objects outside his planet, isn't it?" He caught himself. "Wait a moment. Isn't Venus called the 'Morning Star?'"

"That's a good point," said Ianto.

"Venus is the hottest planet... And there are a few planets that give off their own light, right?" said Jack.

"Yes; Venus isn't one of them, though. It reflects the light of the sun. Let me see what I can find on the net..."

"We're on to something now," Sherlock told Watchful. "Perhaps we can find where you've come from after all."

_Then what?_

"I don't know. Depending on where it is, it could be very difficult to send you back."

_I want to come out._

"Jack, can he come out? It's unethical keeping a creature of his intelligence caged up next to that weevil."

"Can't take any chances," Jack said firmly. "Once he's out here, there's no telling what kind of tricks he could pull with our equipment. We're all safer keeping him where he is."

"Very well. Sorry, old chap, but it looks like you're stuck."

_Alpha is very strict._

"Is that Jack you're talking about?"

_Yes._

"What do you call Ianto?"

_Reliable._

"And Captain Hart?"

_Rogue._

"Very fitting."

_Alpha wishes he had his old mates back._

"That's a common sentiment for any human who's lived very long."

_There's no Healer now. He wants a new one. Crafty misses Tender most._

Sherlock knew Watchful was talking about the former agents Owen and Toshiko. "Has Jack ever come down here to talk to you?"

_No. Alpha keeps distance. Crafty is his reflection._

"Fascinating."

"What's he saying?" asked Gwen.

"Since Jack keeps away from Watchful, he can't read him. But he can read a lot about everyone by talking to you."

"All the more reason for you to do all the talking," said Jack. "You still don't know many of our secrets."

_Alpha keeps his brother in a box._

Sherlock shook his head. _I must have heard that wrong... something lost in translation._ "Sorry, what about Jack?"

_Will he put me in a box, too?_

"I think you're mistaken."

_Brother killed Healer and Tender._

Sherlock stood. "I'll come back down later," he said. He nodded to Gwen to follow him back upstairs. "Jack tends to kill these alien specimens once he's through studying them, correct?" he asked when he was sure they were far enough away.

"Only if they pose a threat."

"As far as Jack's concerned, every alien poses a threat while it's alive. I can see that you know it's true. Does he put them in boxes?"

"Boxes?"

"Watchful seems to think Jack stored his brother away in a box."

Gwen gasped. "Oh, god..."

"Is it true?"

"It... it's a long story."

They reached the others back in the main work area.

"I think I've found it," Ianto said. "There's a type of star called a brown dwarf which burns only a little hotter than a hot summer day on Earth. Not hot enough to convert hydrogen to helium."

"So, giving him helium was like feeding honey to a butterfly," Hart said with amusement. "Concentrated form of his usual diet, eh? Literally sent him high."

Sherlock stepped up to Jack (whose pupils dilated in conjunction with an intensifying of that peculiarly pleasant scent he gave off) and said slowly, "Tell me, 'Alpha,' do you keep your brother in a box?"

Barely hesitating a moment, Jack retorted, "Oh yeah, that's where I left him! Right next to your brain."

"Something that Watchful read in Gwen told him that your brother killed Owen and Tosh, and that you put him away in some sort of box. Why would he get that impression?"

"It's none of your business."

"I just want to know if I'm taking orders from a lunatic."

"Oh, you are," Hart assured him.

"There's a lot that happened here that you don't need to know about," Jack said, ignoring Hart. "You don't have to trust me. Don't expect me to trust you."

Awkward silence... awkward to everyone else, anyway. Sherlock kept his cool. "Very well. But that may make things difficult for you. You see, there's something I need you to do that you're going to want to know more about, but I can't tell you the details."

"What is it?"

"I need you to send a message to White Hall reporting the alien threat. Tell them you think it likely that the planet may soon be under siege."

"Is that the case?"

"I think it best that I don't tell you the details."

Jack folded his arms and glared at Sherlock.

Hart leaned toward Ianto. "Coffee boy, you any good at making popcorn?"

"Shut up," said Ianto.

"I don't work this way," Jack told Sherlock. "I find the threat and I eliminate it."

"This isn't the sort of threat you think it is, and whatever you're planning to do about it, my plan is better," said Sherlock. "You see why not trusting me may make this difficult?"

"Yeah. Spill it, or I'm not going along with this. Period."

Sherlock turned his eyes toward the ceiling and uttered a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Fine. I'll tell you. But in your office. No need for everyone to know. How good a liar are you, by the way?"

"First class."

"I can attest to that," Hart confirmed. "But I can still tell."

X X X

"What the devil does this mean, 'alien invasion?'"

"It means an invasion of the non-terrestrial sort, naturally."

"Don't you be insolent with me_—_there hasn't been an incident since last Christmas. Aliens don't attack in summer; everyone in London knows that!"

Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft, believe me when I say that it is imperative that the public be made aware of this message. It's what they want."

"Who, the aliens? Do you know how this is going to muck up the search for the Chancellor?"

"I do. In fact, I'm counting on it."

Silence...

"You know something. Don't play games with me, Sherlock. Tell me what you know."

"I'll tell you what _you_ know. You know that I wouldn't risk the kidnappers panicking and killing the Chancellor. You know that I don't take steps unless I am reasonably sure that they will yield results. You know that this is a sensitive matter which I should keep to myself until the danger is over. Release the messages to the press at once."

Sherlock counted slowly in his head. _One, two, three... four... five__—_

"Fine. I'll do it. If anything happens to the Chancellor, I'll personally see you hanged for treason."

"You can't do that, you know. The death penalty for treason was abolished by an amendment to the Crime and Disorder Act proposed by Lord Archer of Sandwell in 1998. Honestly, don't you keep up on these things?"

"I'll hang you myself!"

"Then you'll be facing trial for murder, but don't worry: the death penalty has also been abolished for that one. The worst you can do is life imprisonment, but I'm sure you can convince the judge that you were provoked and get a reduced sentence further shortened for good behavior and be out in a matter of... eighteen months?"

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

"No, it isn't. I'll contact you when I have more news. But get those messages out." Sherlock ended the call.

"Sounds like he wasn't too happy," Jack commented.

"Correct. But that's not important."

"You're sure about all this?"

"Absolutely."

"That's what I was afraid of. I hate trusting people who are sure. I have this friend... I'd ask him if he was sure about something and he'd say 'We'll find out soon,' or 'Why, aren't you?' or some other vague, non-reassuring thing. Gave me confidence. But you... you sound too sure to be trusted."

"You don't want trust. You want faith. I don't inspire faith. You'll have to make due."

"So, what's our next move?" asked Hart.

"We wait. The alien threat should be pleased: the world is taking them seriously, probably about to go into panic. Then they can get what they want."

"What do they want?"

"I'm not certain yet. But it's something very specific, you can be sure. I'll go down and take leave of Watchful; then I'll be ready to go home."

Hart followed Sherlock downstairs and waited in the doorway. "You've taken a liking to that alien, haven't you?"

"He's the first extra-terrestrial I've spoken with," Sherlock said. "Hello again, Watchful. You're always awake when I see you. Do you sleep?"

_Yes._

"How often?"

_I don't get very tired in your world. I'm not so heavy._

"Yes... lower gravity pull, I expect. We think you're from a 'brown dwarf' star."

Watchful's eyes spun. _How strange. A small bright cloud in darkness._

"Rather like that, yes."

_It's dark here. Like having my eyes closed all the time._

"Would you rather it were brighter? we could give you a lamp or something."

_I would like that._

"I'll see to it. I'm going home for the night now."

_Rogue is going with you as usual?_

"Yes. He's my transport."

_Is he your mate?_

"No... I haven't one of those."

_Then whom do you go home to?_

"My friend, Watson. He shares my flat."

_But Doctor is not your mate either?_

Sherlock smiled. "No; Doctor Watson and I live together out of convenience. And friendship," he added, knowing that the arrangement wouldn't work half so well with anyone else.

_Everyone lives with everyone at home._

"Fascinating. Can you hear all of one another's thoughts as well?"

_Of course. Can't you?_

"No."

_How lonely. No wonder humans don't trust.  
_

"You may be right. I'll probably see you tomorrow."

_Goodbye, Handsome._

X X X

As usual, Hart hated letting go of Sherlock when they reached the Baker Street flat. He held him from behind a few tiny extra moments before stepping back slowly, his hands sliding over Sherlock's sides.

"Well... guess I've gotta find something to do while I wait for hell to break loose, eh?"

Sherlock turned around. "I can't do it, you know."

"Do what?"

"Give you what you want."

_Finally, a response. I guess that's progress._ "What exactly do you think I want?"

"You told me that you wanted to get into Torchwood to get a second chance at Jack, and I think that was true___—_then. But you've paid more and more attention to me in the last few days, and less to Jack. You've had an attraction to me since we met, and now you want to act on it."

"Since before we met," Hart corrected.

"Fine. The point is, I don't want a lover. I've never wanted one. So it's better that you stop pursuing me. It will end in disappointment."

_No. You can't say that when you haven't even given me a chance. Have you even given yourself a chance?_ But Hart kept his thoughts to himself for the time being. _I need to get away and rethink my strategy. There has to be a way._ "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, turning toward the door.

"Captain," Sherlock said sharply. "If you go out looking for Moriarty, then don't come back here. Ever."

Hart stopped in his tracks. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"You may not have begun to think about it seriously yet, but you liked him. Now you're curious about him. You want to know whether John and I gave you an accurate representation of him. You want to know what he would do if he saw you again. So I'm telling you now: choose your side."

_Okay, now that actually hurt._ "Don't you understand that I'm on your side? How can you think anything else?" _I'm bloody smitten with you, you great bundle of brain cells._ He didn't bother going to the door, instead teleporting back to his own flat.

"He knows I want him___—_he said as much. Why in the hell would he think I'd stab him in the back?" He muttered aloud. _Still... Jim Moriarty was pretty damn cool._

* * *

_I hope my explanation of Watchful's body temperature not spazzing is satisfactory. Don't forget to leave me a comment. ^^ _


	13. Allies

_Usually I like to wait until the chapter has a review or two before posting the next one. Well... no one reviewed the last chapter. I know it's been less than two weeks, but usually someone reviews within the first day or two. I like to get some feedback before going forward because it helps me gauge how I'm doing and sometimes influences where I go from there. Anyway, I got tired of waiting, so here's the next part.  
_

* * *

Chapter 13: Allies

X X X

All over the world, people were talking about the alien threat. Some preached conspiracy, some scoffed at the whole thing as an obvious hoax, and a few glanced nervously at the skies from time to time_—_none so often as the people of London. The story of the missing Chancellor was all but forgotten in the mounting anxiety.

Sherlock sat in front of the TV, muttering under his breath. Every station had something to say about the threat; few had anything to say on the Chancellor.

"Come on, honestly? Don't interview him_—_he knows nothing! About anything, let alone aliens..."

John approached with a bowl of cereal and plopped down next to Sherlock. "What are we looking for?"

"Nothing. We're just waiting. Whiling away the time."

"Oh." John took a bite of cereal and chewed noisily.

Sherlock slowly tore his eyes away from the screen and stared at John instead.

"What?"

"Would you mind grinding your grain somewhere else? It's a bit loud."

John rolled his eyes. "You said yourself that we're just wasting time here. You don't need to hear what they're saying. And if you don't like it..."

Sherlock got up off the sofa and moved to the armchair.

"Well. That's the first time I've seen you move for yourself since I moved in," John muttered.

"I'm that irritated," Sherlock snapped. "And that bored."

"Bu' the case's abou' do brea', righ'?"

Sherlock cringed. "Don't do that."

John swallowed. "The case is about to break, right?"

"Oh... probably. But when? How long will it take these people to make their bloody move?"

"Do you realize how intolerable you are when you're like this?"

"I could say the same."

Hart appeared in the middle of the room. "Hello. Coming to Torchwood this morning?"

Sherlock leaned to the right. "Could you move... just a little? You're blocking my view."

Looking behind himself to see what he was blocking, Hart said, "So that's a no, then?"

"You go ahead. Nothing to be done here."

"Then why aren't you coming?"

"Nothing to be done there."

"What about Watchful?"

"Did you get him a lamp yet?"

"I dunno. Gwen was going to."

"Well, make sure she did. John, quit looking back and forth like you're watching a tennis match."

Again, John rolled his eyes. "No living with him."

"I'll just stay with you," said Hart.

"No, I'm sure Jack can find a use for you. You should go."

"He'll be glad to be rid of me for a day." Hart sat next to John, who did not welcome him at all.

"I'll be able to think better if you go."

"What about him?" Hart nodded at John. "Going to ask him to go?"

"John's good for my thinking... when he's not chomping his breakfast like a racehorse."

"Oi_—_"

"How is he good for thinking? Why am I not good for thinking?" asked Hart.

"He's simple and familiar. You are complex and unfamiliar."

"Hey, now, 'simple'?" John demanded.

"Don't be like that, John. I didn't say simple-minded. Just simple."

"You meant simple-minded."

"I think we can solve this problem," said Hart. "Just make me more familiar."

"Oh, just get out," John said in an exasperated tone. "He doesn't want you."

Hart tilted his head to the side, glaring daggers at John. Then he tipped it the other way to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes remained glued on the TV.

"Fine." He stood and flipped open his vortex manipulator. "Try not to have too much fun. Call me when the world falls apart."

"Don't worry, you won't miss it," John said dryly.

X X X

He didn't know why he did it. At least, half of his mind didn't. Hart seemed to have divided his mind right down the middle and declared the dividing line to be off-limits on pain of death. The rational side intended to go to Torchwood and try to forget Sherlock for a day. But the other half took the helm and punched coordinates into the vortex manipulator.

He arrived in the restroom at the same pub where he had met Moriarty. It was foolish, he knew. If the villain wanted to find him, it was a logical place to lie in wait: somewhere the victim had been found before. The logical side made a rush at the dividing line, but was beaten back by the opposition. He made his way out to the bar.

He ordered a coffee and did little speaking after that. He nearly allowed himself to buy a drink for a pretty, young, dirty-blonde girl, but instead he told her "Sorry, I'm waiting for someone."

_Am I? Am I waiting for someone?_ the logical side asked urgently. _Shut up. It doesn't matter,_ the other side retorted. He sipped his coffee and waited. Every few minutes he looked around and then went back to waiting.

He wasn't sure how long it had been_—_at least fifteen minutes, maybe as long as half an hour_—_when a man approached the stool next to him. Moriarty was dressed a little less richly than the last time, but he was still the image of well-groomed class.

"Mind if I sit here?"

"Be my guest," Hart said lazily.

Moriarty climbed onto the seat and caught the bartender's eye. "I'll take a cup of your most popular tea," he said pleasantly.

"That would be the spiced chai," the bartender answered.

"Sounds good. Milk; no sugar."

"Yes, sir."

Moriarty smiled at Hart. "Isn't it nice_—_they serve tea in the morning and hard liquor at night. Keep themselves in business that way. After nothing but tea and coffee in the rat race all day, the working man wants something stronger. Then the next morning he needs the caffeine to mask the hangover."

"That's a bit poetic," Hart commented.

"It is. It also reminds me of you."

"How so?"

"All Sherlock would give you was tea, so you came to me for something stronger."

"You think that's why I'm here?"

"I _know_ it is. There's only one thing I can't figure out."

"What's that?"

"How you got in here."

Hart raised his eyebrows.

"I mean, look around," Moriarty went on. "I know of a certainty you didn't come in the front door, and anyone climbing in through one of those windows would attract a ridiculous amount of attention. They're not exactly one hundred percent transparent_—_the extra light alone would get people's notice, not to mention the noise of forcing open a window that's probably stayed shut for years. The only other entrance is through the kitchen, and that would cause a bit of a stir, too. Yet you emerged from the lavatory..." He checked his watch. "...about twenty-eight minutes ago, as if you had arrived earlier. But I'd almost swear that you couldn't have. You don't have room on your person for a change of clothes, let alone a full disguise. Is there a secret passage in this place?" He looked up at the dark, aged rafters above them with wide-eyed innocence. "What possible intrigue could prompt someone to build a secret door in a little pub like this?"

_I'm getting careless,_ the logical side of Hart's mind scolded. _I knew Moriarty was damnably clever, but I didn't take time to think this through. I didn't want him to intercept me before I got here, I wanted this meeting on my terms, but it's cost me. He's terribly suspicious now._ "With all the tricks up my sleeve, how I got into the pub is a trivial point," he said, trying to sound bored. "Supposing you're right... about my wanting something stronger. What do you think you'll do about it?"

"Well..." Moriarty's bright eyes followed the movement of the bartender's hands as he poured steaming water over a diffuser and then stirred milk into the teacup before offering it on a saucer. "There are several points to consider." He blew on the tea and took a careful sip_—_almost daintily, Hart thought. "I'm sure you appreciate that this is the 'point of no return.'"

Hart nodded. He knew it very well; it was a point he had seen often. _And cheated and returned from more than once,_ his dominating mind-half pointed out.

"I'm glad you comprehend. So many people get lost at crucial moments like this one."

"I could never get lost from here. This is my home street."

Half of Moriarty's mouth curled upward before he straightened it again to take another sip of tea. "What it comes down to is, you're either mine or his. We can work out the hard and soft limits later, but for now it's as simple as that."

"Do I get any time to consider?"

"You get right now. You get until I say 'time's up.'"

_Very controlling. Very confident._ Hart knew he was in serious danger, but that knowledge only excited him. _I was never meant to be on the side of the angels. This bad boy is my type. He'll always be my type. Owning everything and letting it go to the devil._

_He'll never be _yours_, though,_ the logical side argued. _He's established himself as king of his universe, and he'll never let you have an ounce of influence over him. He'll come to you only when he feels like it, shag you to feel powerful and enlist your help because you're capable, not because he trusts you._

_Sherlock won't be mine either,_ pointed out the other side, which Hart was beginning to suspect was the emotion-driven part of himself. _He's married to criminology, uninterested in sex and fonder of John Watson than he'll ever be of me. What's the point?_

_The point is, you love a challenge._ Hart wasn't sure which side was talking anymore. It might be either... or both. _You always love going after the unattainable, doing the impossible, overcoming all odds. So do what you know will give you the biggest thrill, and if you get hurt or even killed in the process, it'll be worth it. It's certainly better than waiting around for time to decide for you._

Moriarty drained his cup and anchored a few notes to the bar with his saucer. "Come on. I want to show you my town house. Maybe it will help you decide."

_Once I leave, I have no protection. This place is well-peopled; he might not try to force me out of here in front of them all. But if he does, I won't have a choice anymore. He'll be certain never to trust me if I don't go of my own will._

Hart found himself slipping off the side of his stool. "Maybe it will," he agreed.

X X X

"Finally!" Sherlock shouted, so loudly that John dropped his book.

"What... what is it?"

"The press is beginning to recognize that the Chancellor's absence is a serious handicap in this international crisis. Other officials are filling in for him, of course, but the country is crippled without him. This is wonderful."

"It is?"

"Of course! Soon we'll learn what the kidnappers really want. They just need to hear Britain whine and complain a bit more, and then they'll offer us back the Chancellor."

"For a colossal sum?" John guessed.

"Money, favors, a veritable cart blanche. The nation is their oyster." Sherlock got out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft: _Expect ransom dmnd imntly._

"So... that's good news in a way. But I guess it's just more waiting?"

"Yes. More waiting."

"Why don't you go ahead to Torchwood and I'll text you if anything new comes up on the news?"

"Eh..." Sherlock considered. He was very bored, but would John be a good judge of what was important enough to tell him? Would he actually pay attention to the tv, or would he zone out reading a book?

"Mycroft's bound to call you when the terms come in anyway," John pointed out. "You should go. You're getting really restless."

"All right. I'll text Hart." _Come 221 asap._

"What have you been doing over in Cardiff, anyway?"

"Mostly working out how to use the computer of a dead tech genius. But also communicating with an alien from a brown dwarf star and decoding messages."

John frowned and leaned forward on the sofa. "When you say 'alien,' you mean..."

"Extra terrestrial."

"And... is it intelligent?"

"Compared to whom?"

John's eyes widened. "What... what does it look like?"

"I'm really not supposed to tell you these things, you know." The phone vibrated in his hand. _Busy._ "Hm."

"What is it?"

"Hart says he's busy."

"Well, that thing of his works instantaneously, right? It shouldn't bother him too much to come and get you."

"I agree." _Wont take long._

"Is he working with that alien too? Where did you say it came from, a dwarf star?"

"A brown dwarf. It burns about as hot as a hot summer day on Earth."

"That's very interesting. I'd never heard of them... and this from a man who forgets about the orbit of the..."

"Not that again." A new text: _Moot. _"Oh, really?"

"What now?"

"Apparently it doesn't matter how little time it would take_—_Hart can't be bothered right now."

"Well, he's not so wrapped up in something that he can't text you back."

"Exactly. So, what can he be doing that he can't leave?" Sherlock scrolled through his contacts and found Jack, listed as Alpha. _Hart w/u?_

"He's probably just pouting like a girl because you didn't want him here this morning."

"If that's the case, then you'll have to talk to him. I don't have the tolerance for working out teen drama."

"You think I do?"

From Jack: _Not seen 2day. Wuzup?_

"More than I do." _Need him; says busy. W/what?_

"Well, I think the two of you should grow up and sort things for yourselves."

"I tried. I told him on no uncertain terms last night that he should stop pursuing me."

"Really?" John blinked several times, the picture of uncomfortable surprise. "Well..."

From Jack: _No iD_

"Jack doesn't know what Hart's up to."

"Do you think he could be in trouble?"

"Anyone could be in trouble at any given moment, John. It's statistically probable." To Hart: _Need help?_

"So, what should we do?"

"Depends on what he says."

_No._

"Something is definitely wrong."

"Why? What did he say?"

"He's sent me three one-word texts. John Hart may be lazy at times, but he's never missed an opportunity to flirt before. This isn't like him at all. Nothing about these texts is the slightest bit suggestive."

John held out his hand and took the phone to review the texts. "Does seem fishy," he admitted. "Do you think someone's got him prisoner and is giving you the short answer routine to get rid of you?"

"Possibly. Or forcing him to. Or..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Or he's found someone else to flirt with."

"To the extent that he'd forget about you that quickly? Impossible."

"What makes you say that?"

John looked away. "Just things that he's said... when you weren't around. He's pretty well smitten."

Sherlock took his phone back and sent one more text. _What so impt?_ The answer came almost immediately: _Own bz._ Sherlock frowned and held the phone out to John. "What's that mean?"

"Mm... 'my own business'?"

"Ah. Undoubtedly. That settles it. He's in some sort of trouble." Sherlock sighed. "Why now?"

"Why not now_—_we're about to get the ransom demand. All the chaos does tend to happen at once, yeah?"

"Yes. Faulty logic, but possibly the correct idea anyway. This may be a calculated move, in which case I think it's safe to say that Moriarty has his hand in the whole thing."

"What?"

"The alien threat, the Chancellor's kidnapping, and now he's gotten to Hart."

"But this isn't his style, is it?"

"No. But Moriarty is the godfather of all criminals. He's the sponsor. He may not be directly involved, but he's underneath, supporting, instructing. The kidnappers are more of his little proteges. What do they want?"

"I don't know. But you'd better tell Mycroft, hadn't you?"

"Not yet." Sherlock turned his attention back to the tv screen where the Chancellor's face was on display in a small square over the newscaster's shoulder. "Not quite yet."

X X X

"I'll walk you upstairs and then we can take off the blindfold," Jim said courteously. "The drapes are already closed up there. I apologize for not being able to show you the view, but while you're undecided I can't take chances."

"I understand."

Jim tucked his arm up under Hart's and gripped his wrist as they walked across the hall to the curved staircase. "There's a railing to your right." He waited until Hart had found it. "Now, step up. Well done." He guided his temporarily blind guest up the stairs and into his study which was attached to his bedroom. "Here we are." He closed the door behind them. "You can take it off now."

Hart pulled off the blindfold and looked around at the handsome study. "Very nice."

"Thank you. The desk is French; nearly a hundred years old. The fireplace is functional as well as decorative. And if you stay, you'll get to see a lovely view out these windows one day."

Hart moved to the desk and casually ran his fingers over the smooth wood. "I like your style."

"Likewise."

"Sean," Hart said suddenly. "You chose that for me because you knew my name was John."

"And Sean is the Irish form, yes," Jim said with a smile. "I wondered if that would ever occur to you. You chose Finn for me because it means 'fair,' am I right? And so does Sherlock."

"Pretty much. It was the first thing I thought of."

"So, no more riddles. No more secrets." Jim stepped closer to Hart and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I need your answer." He leaned in and felt Hart's unshaven face grazing his cheek as he whispered in his ear. "Time's up."

Jim watched Hart inhale slowly. _Drinking my scent._ He saw Hart's eyes fix on some point on the wall and shift very gradually around over the course of the next few moments. _Left... creative thinking. Imagining things he doesn't know as fact. Possibly preparing a lie. Right... remembering facts, weighing pros and cons, perhaps searching out his own loyalty. Straight ahead now__—_impossible to tell. Decision-making time.

"Are you mine?" Jim prompted. "Or are you his?"

Hart moved toward him almost imperceptibly, and this time Jim felt the stubble digging enough to irritate his skin; perhaps enough to leave a mark. "I'm yours."

The grin was involuntary. _This is probably too easy____—_I'll have to break him. But it's something to look forward to. "Good," he said, reaching up to caress Hart's neck lightly. "Very good. Now, I've got some business I need to conduct, so I'll have to have the help keep you entertained for the afternoon. But I want you in my bed tonight." _Might as well get right down to business._

"What time do you go to bed?"

The grin, which had just faded away, quickly returned. _I say jump, he asks how high. I'm gonna like this pet._ "Oh, let's say nine."

"I'll be there." Hart started to turn back toward the door. He halted suddenly and pulled his phone from his pocket. "I have a text... from Sherlock. He wants me at his flat."

_It's far too soon to let him out of my sight. _"Blow him off. Tell him you're busy."

Hart sent his text and again turned to leave.

Jim reached out and took Hart by the wrist. "I'll have to take that... for safekeeping."

"What if he calls me?"

"Sherlock doesn't call if he can text. I can handle his texts. And if I need you, I'll let you know."

Hart's phone chimed and he opened the new text. "He says it won't take long."

"You can't go back there now, no matter how quick it would be. He'd be able to tell that something was different."

"Yeah, you're right. I'll tell him it's irrelevant how long it would take." He sent the new text and offered the phone to Jim.

"Thank you." Jim opened the phone's contact list. "Just a moment."

"Yes?"

"Sherlock is your only contact?"

Hart shrugged. "I haven't lived here long; it's a new phone."

"Captain, I can tell when someone's bullshitting with me. You just erased your other contacts while pretending to text, didn't you?"

"You don't mind if I break ties, do you? Sherlock's the only one you'd have any use for anyway."

"I can't just let that pass, John. This wasn't a good way to start off our relationship." Jim shook his head grimly. The phone chimed in his hand and he opened Sherlock's latest text himself. _Need help?_ He pressed the reply button and quickly punched in, _No._ Then he tucked the phone into his pocket. "I must say, I'm disappointed. But I don't have time to deal with this right now, so run along and play. And remember not to try to look out the windows___—_my men will have to stop you if you do."

"I won't," Hart assured him. He slipped out of the room and closed the door.

Jim sighed half in exasperation, half in amusement when the phone chimed again in his pocket. _What so impt?_ Sherlock was being persistent. _Own bz,_ Jim typed. "Maybe that'll shut him up a while."

* * *

_Hope you liked it. I think I know where I'm going from here, but I'd really appreciate hearing from you. Are you intrigued? Horrified? What do you think I'm planning, and what would you like to see? The more reviews, the quicker I put out more.  
_


	14. Advances

_Warning: graphic content. This is where the M really earns its billing. Comments are welcome, even crit, but please don't flame.  
_

* * *

Chapter 14: Advances

X X X

Sherlock watched the video for the second time. He had missed nothing the first time, but he wanted to commit every detail to memory. When it was over, he turned to Mycroft.

"So, what are the facts as you see them?"

With a long-suffering look, Mycroft listed, "Chancellor Straw was kidnapped. A threat of alien invasion was received. And now we've received this video of the Chancellor telling us that in this time of planetary crisis the kidnappers are willing to forget their original intention to trade him for money and political prisoners in favor of saving mankind and procuring their own diplomatic immunity."

"Passive," Sherlock said scornfully.

"What?"

"Your overuse of the passive voice. Here are the facts: Hughes, Collins, McBride and associates conspired a clever ruse. They took up positions to keep certain organizations such as Torchwood, Unit and the SIS busy and confused. They kidnapped the Chancellor and sent the world into a panic with a falsified threat from extra terrestrials. Then, when the panic reached its height and the Chancellor's absence was felt most strongly, they revealed their true goal."

"Just a moment. Who are Hughes, Collins and McBride, and what do you mean 'falsified threat'? And what are you saying was their goal, exactly?"

Sherlock shook his head in that condescending way which he knew made Mycroft's blood boil. "The orchestrators of this grand deception are notorious criminals. Most likely internationally wanted war criminals. The kidnapping of the Chancellor and the threat of alien invasion were fabricated strictly to gain these kidnappers their immunity."

John, who had remained silent for nearly half an hour, suddenly sprang to life. "They want to start their lives over!"

"Yes. National traitors are looked down on as the lowest of the low. If they didn't spend the rest of their existence in prison, they'd never find anyone who would give them as much as the time of day on the outside, not to mention dodging assassins. They want the guarantee of safety in England. Which means..."

"Which means that they are _English_ war criminals," Mycroft said, catching up at last. "Who are those people you named? If we can link them to one of our most wanted, then we'll know with whom we are dealing. But Sherlock... do you think they will return the Chancellor safely, once they are guaranteed immunity?"

"If you make the immunity conditional on his safe release, then yes. They will certainly do so. But you cannot make that offer."

"Why not?"

"Because the alien threat is false. There is no actual planetary danger. And English or not, these people have made themselves terrorists. We must not agree to their terms."

"The Chancellor may be killed."

"The Chancellor is valuable to Britain, but he is not Britain herself. Agreeing to such a trade would shake the very fiber of this nation."

"We won't publicize the details."

"And will you have them sign some promise of secrecy? How then will you protect them from the public? If the arrangement is to work, then the populace must know that they have been pardoned."

"You condemn the Chancellor to death, then?"

Sherlock pulled on his coat. "I choose to explore other options. The kidnappers wish you to give them your answer in the comments on an article of an online news publication..."

"Yes, it's an article about the kidnapping."

"Leave some message to the effect that you plan to cooperate and you need more direct contact to draw up the exact terms. In the meantime, do not release any information about this video to the public. That will buy us a little time."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Work. Come on, John."

John frowned. "What about that notion you had earlier...?"

Mycroft glanced between them.

Sherlock sighed. "Very well. I believe that Professor Moriarty is involved."

"Moriarty again?" Mycroft asked, perplexed.

"With such political criminals pardoned, he could use their expertise much more easily."

"I can see that he might take advantage of the situation, but do you have any evidence that he's involved?"

"Circumstantial evidence. And a hunch."

"Oh, well of course."

They took a cab back to Baker Street.

"Go ahead and ask," Sherlock prompted.

"Ask what?"

"What we're going to do."

John looked out the cab window for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and turned his head back to look at Sherlock. "Okay, what are we going to do?"

"We're going to find out which war criminal or criminals are connected to Hughes, Collins and McBride and use every resource available to us to find them."

"And by every available resource... does that mean using Mycroft's access codes to get into classified web databanks?"

"Oh, come now. What other resources have we used?"

John looked past Sherlock for a moment, then back at his face. "Unit. Torchwood."

"Precisely."

Once inside the flat, Sherlock headed for his laptop. He froze momentarily before covering the last few feet.

"What is it?" asked John.

"I knew something was wrong," Sherlock muttered. "Very wrong."

X X X

Hart flipped channels on Moriarty's big-screen tv while he nibbled the remains of his dinner. _Boring. Boring. Boring..._ He glanced furtively up at the man standing nearby and then very slowly inched his hand toward the vortex manipulator. Carefully, he worked it off his wrist. He turned up the tv's volume before punching in coordinates. _I've been to the flat often enough. I know where every piece of furniture is. I know where Sherlock sits when he's doing research. I should be able to get it exact._

The man supervising him looked around with an expression of confusion. His eyes came to rest on Hart. "Did you... I thought there was a..."

Hart looked up at him with a perfect portrayal of innocence. "Yes?"

The man shook his head. "Never mind."

Hart kept his face blank, but he was grinning inside. Sending the vortex manipulator on a solo journey had created just a tiny disturbance. Most twenty-first century humans didn't have a very well-developed temporal sense, and would scarcely notice anything amiss. Even if they did, they wouldn't understand which of their five senses had detected it. Since it was the sixth.

He turned down the volume again. "Hey, what else is there around here to do for fun?" he asked.

"The professor has a pool table in the rec room."

"Oh, a rec room. Take me to the rec room. What are you called, anyway?"

"Simmons."

"Lovely. Are you a straight man, Simmons?"

Simmons turned a withering look on him. "What business is it of yours?"

"I thought you were. Just checking. Would have been more interesting if you weren't."

"It's not a good idea to play games like that around here."

"Thanks for the advice." Hart followed his guide to the rec room in the basement. To his disappointment, there were no windows. There were, however, a pool table with a rack of cues, a dart board, an air hockey table, and to his great surprise, fencing masks and foils. "Nice start," he commented.

"He's planning to add to it—the jacuzzi arrives tomorrow."

"Oh, that'll be nice." Hart went to the rack of cues and selected one. "Fancy a game?"

Simmons looked like he loathed the thought, but he said, "All right."

Once Hart established that he was good at the game (in spite of being more used to the anti-gravity version in the fifty-first century), Simmons began to get caught up in the competition. When he was beaten by a narrow margin, he requested a rematch and Hart obliged.

Hart began to rush when he saw by the wall clock that it would be nine soon. His haste made him a little careless, and Simmons beat him without much trouble. "Well done. It's been fun, but it's time for me to go up to bed now."

"I'll walk you upstairs."

"I can find my way."

"I'll walk you," Simmons insisted.

_Didn't expect that to work,_ Hart mused. _But it was worth a try._

Simmons accompanied him up the basement steps, down the hall, along the edge of the living room and up the stairs past many closed curtains. There was no sign of Moriarty in the study.

"You can go into the bedroom," Simmons said, "but I'll be able to see you on the monitor in here, so don't try to look out the windows."

"Okay..." _How long will this 'No peeking out the windows' thing go on?_ Hart wondered. _He'll want me to go back to Sherlock soon. I'll have to know where I am sooner or later._

He stepped into the bedroom. Moriarty wasn't there, either. He hung his jacket over a chair. His weapons had all been taken from him earlier. All of them. He'd been impressed that they found them all. He took off his boots and put his socks inside them so they wouldn't get lost. Then he set them out of the way in the corner by the door to the bathroom. The thick blackout curtains looked tempting, but he stayed well away from the window. He turned out the overhead light and switched on the lamp by the bed. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

It was only a minute or two before Moriarty came in, and Hart stood to attention. Moriarty favored him with a smile and unbuttoned his jacket, turning so Hart could help him off with it.

"I hear you behaved yourself this afternoon."

"Did my best."

"Good." Moriarty completely untied his necktie and pulled it off in a quick, whip-like motion rather than bringing it up over his head. "Get undressed."

Hart did as he was told, interested to see how his host would conduct himself now that he was done playing the chance-meeting routine of their previous one-night stand.

"Do I have enough channels for you?"

"Eh... I'd like to see more action movies."

"I have Netflix. You'll have to ask Simmons to access it for you."

"Got any porn?"

"No; I never go substitutiary. It's live and in person or not worth my time."

Hart appreciated his class... but he was still a little disappointed. _Interesting that he's got red briefs. They look brand new. Wonder if he ever wears any piece of clothing twice. He must. But maybe not his underwear._

"You like them?" Moriarty asked. "They help me keep my sense of humor. Whenever someone ticks me off and it's not the right time to kill him, I just think to myself, 'Oh yeah? Well, I'm wearing red pants and you don't even know it.'"

Hart laughed. "I might have to try that. If you don't mind, that is."

"Of course not. Imitation is the highest form of flattery." He grabbed a decorative pillow off the bed and dropped it to the floor. "Here, on your knees."

Hart knelt on the pillow and summoned his best game. He knew just how good he was, and he planned to show his new master almost everything right away. As he took Moriarty into his mouth, he felt warm fingers working through his hair, running softly over his face. It was soothing. Pleasant. When he brought his throat lining into play, the fingers tightened significantly. The pain from his abused scalp didn't make him falter for a moment. Instead he quickened his pace until he felt the hot explosion in his throat and swallowed hard to keep from gagging.

Moriarty wasn't very vocal. His breath came out hard like a scream with no vibration to it. He didn't pull away, but nudged Hart's head and neck with his fingers, encouraging him to keep working until his breathing slowed at last. Only then did he release his hold. "Well done," he whispered, still only air carrying his words. "I think... that's on par with the best I've had."

Hart smiled, proud of himself, but there was a tiny imperfection in his happiness... _On par with? It's not the very best you've had? Who the hell could do better? And can I meet them, please?_ He was a little surprised when Moriarty reached to help him up, taking hold of his wrists.

"Now, you get into bed and I'll be right behind you."

When Moriarty said "right behind you," he wasn't mincing his words. He had Hart lie facing away from him and went to work preparing for entry.

Hart closed his eyes and focused on the touch of those soft but firm fingers with their close-trimmed nails. He took long, slow breaths to be certain he wouldn't miss it if Moriarty whispered something to him. He winced when a finger slipped inside, but it was a wince of pleasure. Soon a second followed it. It was getting harder to keep his breathing quiet.

Moriarty paused a moment to prepare himself and then leaned down to press his mouth against Hart's shoulder before settling behind him and pressing in.

A gasp escaped Hart. He was still tight, but he felt Moriarty grip him firmly around the waist and make steady progress forward. No chance of keeping quiet now. Sweat broke out all over his body. His face burned as his pulse climbed madly. There was an edge of pain to the pleasure and he savored it, pushing back into it. His penis was erect and in desperate need of attention. He wished Moriarty would slip his hands down... just a little lower. He started to reach for it himself, but he found his wrist captured by a crushing grip.

"Stay still," Moriarty breathed into his ear. "You go untouched tonight. I told you I couldn't let you get away with lying to me."

_Oh, no._ Hart knew he was damned then. He would be brought to the cliff's edge of pleasure and then dragged back again, not allowed to jump. It would drive him mad. But there was no fighting it. He'd sold his soul. He relaxed his arm and Moriarty released him. Then the hand that had bruised him a moment before ran up over his chest and caressed his nipples. _God, it just makes it worse. So much... but not quite enough. He must be the devil himself._

_He tried to warn me, _Hart's logical side piped up. _They both did. This is going to be harder than I thought. I should have known._

X X X

"Wake up, John."

Hart blinked sleepily. The soft voice was close to his ear. There was an arm around him. He nestled back into his companion and suddenly realized that he was horribly sore. "Oh... god."

"Come on, you need to get up now if you're going to get over to Baker Street this morning."

"You're letting me go back?"

"I'd like to see if we can fool him for a little while. But you need to get cleaned up."

_No chance of fooling him_ Hart thought, but he knew he had to go along with the charade. Very slowly and stiffly, he propped himself up and dragged himself out of bed.

"You can use my private bath. Try to follow your usual routine as closely as possible."

"All right." Hart gathered his clothes. "By the way, is it all right if I call you Jim?"

Moriarty considered. "That's all right when we're in bed, but the rest of the time you call me 'sir.'"

Hart nodded and went into the immaculate bathroom. _I hurt everywhere._ He looked at himself in the mirror and was surprised to find that he didn't have many bruises. The worst was on his wrist, but there were a few light ones on his hip as well. He stepped closer and examined his neck, but there were no hickies. Moriarty was very careful.

He was grateful when the hot water hit his body. He felt as if he'd been beaten. He suddenly wished to wash all traces of Moriarty off himself as quickly as possible. Once that was done, he wanted to leave the town house immediately.

When he was dressed he felt a little better. He brushed his hair back with a fancy-rich-person brush sitting on the counter, but he didn't touch his host's cologne or shaving lotion. Sherlock would probably recognize it. Not that it mattered. He'd guess where Hart had been anyway.

When he came out of the bathroom, a man was busily changing the bedsheets.

"The professor is taking breakfast downstairs," the man informed him. "He'd like you to join him."

"Okay." Hart braced himself for what he hoped was their last encounter before could get back to Sherlock for a while. Moriarty was charming, fascinating, very good in bed... but there was something that made Hart think he was pleasant only in small doses. If he stayed here much longer he'd become robotic and will-less like the other men about the place.

* * *

_Let me know what you think of this chapter. Please leave a review. ^^_


	15. Analysis

_After almost a month, someone new reviewed, so I guess I'd better put up another chapter and see if the interest holds. ;)_

_Some mature content in this one; not a big deal._

* * *

Chapter 15: Analysis

XXX

Hart felt some of his apprehension leave him when he caught the scent of breakfast. He followed it to an out-of-the-way little room downstairs where Moriarty sat perusing the morning paper.

The arch villain laid the paper aside with a smile. "There you are. I hope you like crepes."

"Love them," said Hart. At a gesture from his host, he took the free chair on the other side of the small, round table.

"Sherlock will want to know why you couldn't go to him last night," Moriarty said, offering a plate of prepared crepes to Hart. "Have you thought about what to tell him?"

"It'll have to be something with a shred of truth. He'll know if I tell a complete falsehood."

"What do you have in mind?"

Hart helped himself to some tea. He wished it were coffee. _Oh, well._ "I suppose I'll tell him I ran into you. That I was very clever and witty and that I had to be careful about what I texted to him. He'll want to know how I got away from you, so I'll have to convince him that I'm playing double agent—that I made you believe I could be useful to you."

"Sounds good. Very good. Is that more than a shred of truth, Captain? Are you trying to play me here?"

"I'm always trying to play everyone. Even when I have little to no chance of winning." The crepes were filled with fruit puree and whipped cream. Hart savored a bite before going on. "You're a good player, sir. Maybe the best. If that's the case, you don't need to worry about my loyalty."

"I don't tend to worry about such things. Doubt, yes. Puzzle, even. But worry is reserved for much more important things." Moriarty picked up his paper again. "I see our dear Sherlock hasn't found the missing chancellor yet. And it seems the planet is soon to be taken over by aliens. He'd better get a move on if he wants to save everything from going to shite."

Hart smirked at Moriarty's bored tone. If there were any question about the alien threat being fake, it was gone now. Perhaps he didn't believe in aliens, but with the government taking the threat seriously, he would surely have looked into it. _Or is he behind it?_ Either way, if Moriarty wasn't worried, there wasn't any point in giving it another thought.

Simmons came in then with a tray of fresh crepes.

"A round of savory?" asked Moriarty.

"Yes, sir. Egg and sausage."

"Excellent. This will do. You and the others may take your own breakfast now."

"Thank you, sir." Simmons departed quickly and quietly.

_I need a butler,_ Hart decided.

"How do you like it?" Moriarty asked, nodding at Hart's half-covered plate.

"Delicious. The French couldn't do any better. And I speak from experience."

"You're a well-traveled man, I take it."

_Oh, you have no idea._ "I am."

"How many languages do you speak?"

Hart squinted in thought. _Earth languages,_ he told himself. _Only count Earth languages. English, French, Spanish, Russian, Korean, __Mandarin... there was something else. Italian._ "Seven or so? Not all of them fluently, but enough to get by."

"Very useful. You know, there's been something different about you since you first came here, and I finally remembered what it is."

"Oh?"

"You were wearing something on your wrist. Like a leather arm band. Only it looked a little more... functional than that."

"It was. sort of a portable memory bank. I hit the self-destruct when Simmons wasn't quite paying attention yesterday."

"Hiding more information from me?"

"Information that has nothing to do with the here and now. Protecting my past, you might say."

"You can't keep doing that."

"I have no reason to hide anything else from you."

"Will Sherlock notice it's gone?"

"Oh, probably. I'll just tell him the truth."

"And if he suspects that it's him you're double-crossing, what will he do?"

"Probably not much. Just observe me more carefully to see he isn't duped." Hart was much more worried about what Jack would do to him if he found out.

"Good." Moriarty reached to his right and pulled the curtain cord to draw back the long, dark drapes of the window by the table.

Hart blinked against the morning sunlight. Through the window he could see a perfectly groomed back garden with short grass of a uniform emerald color, a few beds of pastel flowers and a cobbled walkway. A tall hedge surrounded the garden. _Still no idea where I am, but it's good to see natural light again._

"This is the back of the house, of course," said Moriarty. "A nice southern exposure for the plants. When you come back tonight, I'll let you see out the front."

"I look forward to it." _He still doesn't trust me much. Not that I blame him. It would be disappointing if he weren't careful._

"My driver will drop you within more familiar surroundings and you can make your way to Baker Street from there." He took out Hart's phone and slid it over the tabletop, followed by its battery.

"How will I find you again?"

"Don't try. One of my men will find you."

* * *

Both Sherlock and John had gotten little sleep. They were both at their computers, Sherlock with the vortex manipulator open beside him. For a moment, the two froze and stared at Hart. Then they both sprang to action.

John pushed his chair back and stood while Sherlock got out his phone.

_To Lestrade and Alpha: Hart found. Call off search._

"Are you all right?" John asked Hart with more concern in his voice than he had ever shown the time agent before.

"Fine. How are the two of you?"

"You're moving very stiffly," Sherlock observed. "How badly are you hurt?"

"I'm not hurt. Just didn't sleep well. Coming to Torchwood today?"

"I can't. There's too much to do. Why weren't you at Torchwood yesterday?"

"Gave myself the day off."

"What was it you couldn't be distracted from?"

"I found things to keep me busy."

Text from Jack: _Where was he?_

"So busy you turned your phone off by noon and didn't turn it back on again until this morning?" To Jack: _Working that out._

Hart looked surprised. "You tried to triangulate my phone? Aw, I didn't think you cared."

"Come off it," John erupted. "You're not 'fine.' You _are _hurt. And you don't want us to know where you were or what you were up to, or _who you were with._ Which means we wouldn't approve."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock interrupted. "I'll take it from here."

A new text came in from Lestrade: _Good._

"Actually, before we begin, we'd better search your clothes."

"Be my guest," Hart said with a lopsided smile.

"Search them for what?" asked John.

"Bugs and homing devices."

Hart shed his outer clothes and retired to the bathroom to check the rest himself. The search revealed a bug in his jacket lining. Sherlock immersed it in a bowl of water and they went back to the sitting room.

Hart went to sit on the sofa. John hovered by the table.

Sherlock moved to stand in front of the fireplace. "Now... You don't smell like Moriarty, but you don't smell like _you_ either, so I'm guessing you were with him, but you gave yourself a thorough washing to get rid of his scent. You used some high-end variety of soap but no shampoo. You're wearing the exact outfit you wore yesterday, which means you never went back to your flat yesterday, or if you did then you were interrupted before you could change. You're trying your best to walk, stand and sit normally, but even John can see that you're stiff from more than poor sleep quality. Also, in all this attention to your posture, you haven't realized that you're subconsciously favoring your right hand. My guess is something's happened to your wrist. You were restrained in some way, but only on one side. You were not completely incapacitated by your antagonist. The confrontation was both intellectual and physical. How am I doing?"

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Hart said, leaning back and putting his hands up behind his head.

John took the opportunity to come up and tug Hart's right sleeve down his arm before he could react. Hart pulled away, but not before the others caught sight of a large dull brown bruise on his wrist.

"Not handcuffs, then," Sherlock mused. "Probably not even rope."

"Could have been padded handcuffs," Hart said with a small smile, as if he were trying to be helpful.

"He gripped your wrist with his own hand, very hard. But you didn't fight back."

"How do you know that?"

"No swelling or redness on your hands. If you'd gotten a blow in, you'd have made it count."

Hart acknowledged that with a small nod.

Sherlock moved closer to Hart. "May I see the bruise up close? There's no point in hiding it now."

"Very well." Hart held out his arm, looking amused.

Sherlock studied the shape of the bruise. It was darkest on the inside of Hart's wrist. Five little darker spots showed where fingertips had been, the middle and ring fingers and the thumb having applied the most pressure. The thumbprint was on the left and pointing forward, toward Hart's fingers. "He was behind you."

"Oh, well done," Hart said, sounding genuinely impressed.

"There are more bruises, aren't there? On your torso, perhaps?"

"Not so much. Think lower."

John looked like he might want to leave the conversation there, but he said, "Do you need to get to the hospital?"

"What the hell for? I told you, I'm fine."

"To get a professional opinion on that? To gather evidence?"

"Evidence?" Hart chuckled. "Who needs evidence?"

"You turned off your phone so you wouldn't be found—or someone turned it off for you," Sherlock went on. "And you sent or left me your vortex manipulator. You put it where you knew I would see it right away. I wasn't able to get past your lock, so you obviously didn't send it for my use. You sent it here for safekeeping. It had to be protected from someone." Sherlock sat in the armchair and leaned forward, looking hard at Hart. "At this point it would be a little silly to deny that you were with Moriarty, don't you think?"

"I never denied it. Just didn't confirm it. Fine, I was with Moriarty."

"Didn't I say you wouldn't come away from a second encounter unscathed?"

"Oh, don't be silly. A few little bruises. Jack's done worse than that to me. Loads of times."

"Why did you go back to him?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because we told you how dangerous he is."

"I happen to enjoy danger, and this danger is particularly alluring."

"He can't be _that_ good in bed," John muttered.

"Oh, what would you know? All you've ever had is vanilla. If that."

"How about if you just tell the whole story, instead of going through this interrogation process?" Sherlock suggested. "It'll save time."

"You're not entitled to the whole story."

"I think I am. John and I were concerned for you. We had Scotland Yard searching for you. And I believe that Moriarty may be involved with the case I'm working. So anything you can tell me is important for me to know. If you don't cooperate, I'll have my colleague Inspector Lestrade take you to the station to continue this in a less pleasant environment."

Hart looked betrayed. "You'd have me arrested? That's cheating." He looked at Sherlock's immovable expression. "Fine. After I left here yesterday morning, I went back to the place I met Moriarty the first time."

"Why?" John asked, looking completely confused.

"He felt insulted," Sherlock answered for Hart. "Making contact with Moriarty a second time after we warned him and after I told him that such action would ban him from this flat probably seemed like a good retaliation."

"You told him not to...?" John rounded on Hart. "Why did you come back?"

Hart shrugged. "I took a shot that you wouldn't find out. Are you going to let me finish the story?"

"Continue," said Sherlock.

"Right, so before long Moriarty found me again. He told me if I wanted to be with him then I had to be on his side. Which makes sense... you don't want your friends working with your enemy. So I pretended I was changing loyalty. He took me to a place he called his 'town house' and let me make myself at home."

"Where was it?" asked John.

"I don't know. On the way in and out I was blindfolded. He even kept all the curtains drawn so I couldn't see out. I swore my allegiance to him, he took my phone, I watched a lot of telly, I played billiards with the staff..."

"Did he have a lot of staff?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Mm... at least four different men; maybe as many as six."

"Would you remember their faces?"

"Some of them, certainly. Oh, and Moriarty seems to have a limo on call at all times. Probably owns it rather than renting. I never saw its plates, though. Anyway, I sent the VM here in the afternoon sometime. Then at nine I went to bed with Moriarty... would you like details there?"

"No," John said with a grimace.

"Yes," Sherlock said at the same time.

"Really?" said Hart. "I'll oblige, but why?"

"I want to know how far he trusts you and whether he's sent me any hidden messages. And also how much he hurt you," Sherlock added. John seemed to be concerned for Hart in spite of his dislike for the man, so it was a good idea to assess the damage.

John's expression became more and more disturbed as Hart detailed his sexual exploits. Sherlock didn't do anything to ease his friend's discomfort—if it bothered him so much, he should just leave the room.

After the first segment, he interrupted to ask, "While you gave him the blow job, did he touch you?"

"Yes. Ran his hands over my face and through my hair."

"Interesting. Go on."

"He helped me up afterwards, I remember."

"Did he offer you his hand?"

"No; hauled me up by the wrists. That wasn't where I got the bruising, though."

"Of course not. He was facing you."

"So, after that he had me lie on my side in the bed."

"Which side?"

"My left."

Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured the scene as Hart unfolded it to him. He listened very carefully when Hart described how Moriarty gripped his wrist and told him he was being punished for lying. Every word, every action was a little insight into Moriarty's mind and his plans for Hart.

When that part of the story was over, John abruptly said, "I'm making tea," and headed for the kitchen.

"Next morning he had me take a shower... there's a bath connected to his bedroom. Then I went down to breakfast—really good crepes... I think his staff made them—we talked a little more, and then he had me taken back into town."

When the faceless men in his imagination removed Hart's blindfold and dropped him off on a sidewalk, Sherlock opened his eyes. "When did you get your phone back?"

"At breakfast. I didn't turn it on until I got my blindfold off on the way back, though."

"And now that I have your whole story, one more question: Whose side are you really on?"

"I thought I already made that clear to you. You think I'd have come back here if I were really his?"

"Of course you would. He would have sent you."

"Okay, maybe he would. But I stand by what I told you before. Now I have a question for you: You told me not to come back if I went back to Moriarty. Yet here I am... why haven't you thrown me out?"

"Because I believe Moriarty is involved in the kidnapping of the chancellor. Right now you are in the best position to gather information for me. The game is moving very quickly now. I need any advantage I can find. Whether I trust you or not, I can use you."

"Might have known. You just want to use me." Hart shook his head.

"I told you that you would be disappointed if you kept pursuing me, didn't I?"

"Yes, yes. But hope springs eternal."

Sherlock decided there was no point trying to reason with Hart further on this subject. "Are you fit to travel?"

"Of course. Travel where?"

"There is no 'of course.' There isn't any reason to assume you're fit for anything, after what you've been through."

"Don't be silly. I've had rougher sex than that and gone out on assignment the next day. I'll be fine."

"How are your emotions?"

"None the better for your treatment of me, but not too bad."

Sherlock frowned. Was Hart in shock? He seemed too calm. "Most people are a little more shaken by rape."

Hart looked surprised. "I wasn't raped... what are you talking about?"

"You seem to be attracted to me, claim to have an attachment to me, as well as loyalty to me... then you're commanded to give sexual favors to my adversary under duress, pain was inflicted on you during the process, and you don't call it rape?"

"It was a lark. Just a bondage scenario that got a little real. Very real, actually. Made it that much hotter. I enjoyed it. So no, I don't call it rape. I have no protest to make toward his treatment of me."

"He didn't let you finish."

"Well... that was frustrating, certainly. But it was the price of protecting my contacts list. No regrets."

"You've thrown yourself willingly into a very abusive relationship."

"It's kinda fun when you know what's going on. He's not going to get in my head."

"He'll break you."

"No, not me. And even if he did, why should you care? Oh, I know—I might lose my usefulness to you."

John returned then with the tea things. "I made plenty of hot water, so you two can have some, too." He looked back and forth between Hart and Sherlock. "So, um... did I miss anything?"

"No," said Sherlock and Hart together.

* * *

_There you are. If you enjoyed reading it, please leave a review.  
_


	16. Agent

_Note: Mature content ahead. If you're already in this deep, shouldn't shock you.  
_

* * *

Chapter 16: Agent

XXX

"So, Hart has to convince Moriarty that he's convinced us that he's on our side but he's really on Moriarty's side... but he's really on our side?" said John.

Sherlock nodded. "Precisely. Now, we found his bugging device easily enough, as I'm sure he expected us to. What was said before we found the device won't reveal much to him about where things stand. But he'll expect the same move from us. We need to place a bug for him to find, and a homing device which he won't find."

"That'll be quite a trick," said Hart. "Unlike you, Moriarty won't leave any bit of me untouched. He could have stuck a homing device up my arse and you'd be none the wiser, but that won't work on him."

John grimaced. "We could inject one," he suggested. "That's how they get identification microchips into people's pets. They're about the size of a grain of rice. Some hospitals are starting to use them on Alzheimer's and dementia patients for quicker processing."

"There's a suggestion." Sherlock turned back to Hart. "Would Moriarty notice a small puncture?"

"He might." Hart took a moment to think. "There isn't much of me that he didn't touch, and the few places that might be safe, I don't care to have anything injected. Could I swallow it?"

Sherlock looked to John. "As a doctor, how long would you say it takes to pass a homing device?"

"Oh, I'd say at least thirty hours," said John. "Probably longer."

"Plenty of time to locate the town house."

"And once you do, what will you do then?" asked Hart.

"Nothing right away. It's not just Moriarty I want; it's his whole underworld. All his connections, every pie he's got a finger in. If we storm in there and arrest him, I'm sure he's got plans in place to remove any evidence we might find against him. There will be no charges to hold him on."

"And Moriarty might not even be in the town house when Hart arrives," John pointed out.

"True. We'll get a fix on him, but there's no sense in being hasty. In the meantime, we've got to find where the chancellor is being held prisoner. We wasted a lot of time last night."

* * *

Hart spent the day assisting Sherlock as he was able, but mostly just staying out of his way and grudgingly sharing the side-kick's minor spotlight with John. He didn't mind too much though, because watching Sherlock close in on national criminals was too exciting to allow distraction by petty annoyances. The young detective was in his element, following data trails linking his suspects together.

"Eli Davies," Sherlock pronounced at last. "He's the principle man we're dealing with, but there are likely a couple of others. I have a few suspects. Still, based on information we have on him and our minor players—Hughes, Collins and McBride—I can begin pinpointing probable locations of the hostage. Going back to the day of the Chancellor's disappearance..."

Hart stopped listening and just watched Sherlock's mouth moving, his eyes flashing. Those cold, beautiful eyes...

"...Mycroft has a location to meet a representative to establish terms of the chancellor's release. The meeting is to take place tomorrow night. Assuming the meeting place is near the place the chancellor is being held, that makes the most likely locations here, here and here." Sherlock tapped the map he'd been marking up with a red pen.

"Time to send in the green berets?" Hart asked.

"Not yet. We need to scout the locations and find out for sure what the setup is, where exactly the chancellor is, who's guarding him and so on."

"I hope by 'we' you don't mean us," John said, gesturing to the three of them.

"No. Hart has to go back to Moriarty tonight, and I can't risk being seen hanging about. Without either of us, the risk is too great for you to go on your own. I'll employ someone else.

John looked relieved.

"And speaking of Hart needing to go back, it's time we got a tracking device for him to swallow. Captain, back to Torchwood."

"I'll just stay here if it's all the same to you," said John, eying the vortex manipulator distrustfully.

"Just us, then," Hart said with relish. He set the coordinates and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, holding him snugly. He suddenly felt an elbow in his stomach, just hard enough to give him that sickening sensation. He let his breath out in a little groan.

"Yes, just us," Sherlock echoed icily.

* * *

"You want him to swallow a homing device?"

"It's simple enough," Sherlock said impatiently. "Have you got one we can use or not?"

"Oh, we've got them. Got 'em in spades. Just let me enjoy this moment a little longer," Jack said, grinning.

Hart rolled his eyes. "After the parts of _you_ I've had inside me, this should seem downright normal."

That was enough to wipe the grin away. Jack headed for the lab. "They're not candy-coated, but there's a nice variety to choose from. Come on."

Before long Hart had both an encapsulated homing device and a simple bugging device compliments of the Torchwood Institute.

"Moriarty will find the bug of course," said Sherlock, "but we want him to think that we hoped there was a chance he wouldn't."

"You could put it in my boot," Hart suggested.

"No. I think we should put it exactly where he put his in the lining of your jacket. He might think we hoped he would assume it was his own deactivated device. Then again, he might think it's a message—of the 'sticks and stones' variety."

Hart nodded. "In the jacket it goes. Of course, if we really want him to think I'm on his side, I should probably just tell him where it is, shouldn't I?"

"No, because if you were on his side you wouldn't want us to know that you helped him find the bug, so you'd have to keep quiet about it until it was deactivated."

"Ah, good point."

"Out of practice for this double agent stuff, aren't you?" Jack said with a smirk.

"You wouldn't last two minutes with Moriarty. You've gotten dull and tamed in your old age."

Jack quirked an eyebrow at him. "Is that so?"

Seeming to sense a discussion that would annoy him unfolding, Sherlock announced, "I'm going down to see Watchful."

Hart sat down to carefully sew the bugging device into his jacket. He knew his work would be destroyed in an instant, but he still took his time.

"Dull and tamed?" Jack prompted. "Does this mean you're finally over me, or are you just pouting again?"

"I dunno. Maybe both. You know I'm a bitter person."

"Yeah, you're the champ of holding grudges, for sure. Hey, I see your needlework's gotten better."

"Stuff it, mama's boy. Wait, are you referencing that time I tried to stitch you up, or my drug addictions?"

Jack laughed. "Well, I meant the stitching up, but that's a good point, too."

"Thing is..." Hart said slowly, "I s'pose I have started to get over you. I can see you're happy with Ianto and you really don't want or need me anymore. And while that hurts, I'm finally at the stage where it doesn't seem like the end of the world anymore."

"Because of Sherlock?"

"Maybe. This game between him and Moriarty is the first thing I've really thrown my whole self into since... probably since you left the Time Agency."

"Who do you want to win?"

"Sorry, what?" Hart looked up in surprise.

"I know you. It wouldn't take much more than a cookie to get you on the dark side. If Moriarty offered you enough, would you stay with him?"

"You know Sherlock's the one I've got the hots for."

"But it's Moriarty you're sleeping with."

"Did Sherlock tell you that?"

"He didn't have to say it. The way you looked and acted while he was explaining the situation—I can tell."

"You may have missed your calling, m'boy. Should have been a detective."

"If you really care about Sherlock you should quit screwing around. Stop playing your childish games and choose the person you want to be with."

Hart set his jacket aside and folded his arms. "My childish games? This is an important part of an important investigation. Sherlock's counting on me to gather information for him."

"Fine, gather information. But be honest with him."

"I'm not giving up on Sherlock, but I won't love him if he won't love me back. I made that mistake with you and it nearly ended me. So now I'm looking out for myself and you're the last person that would have a right to tell me what to do."

"You think this is still about you and me? May I remind you that you're a member of Torchwood now? I'm your boss, and Sherlock's my agent, too. I just don't want to have to clean up any messes here. As your superior I have _every_ right to tell you what to do. Quit screwing with Sherlock. Or rather _get_ screwing with him, if you're going to."

_Now there's a sound bit of advice._ But this time Hart held his tongue and went back to work. After a moment he said, "Your recommendations have been noted... sir."

"One more recommendation."

Hart was surprised to feel Jack's hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

"Moriarty sounds like a legitimately dangerous person. So try not to get yourself killed, okay? That's an order."

"Understood. Why so tender all of a sudden?"

"If this is going to be my last memory of you, I want it to be a peaceful one."

"I'm not gonna get killed. That's your department, me laddo."

* * *

Sherlock was impressed with how comfortable Gwen had made Watchful. The floor had a soft white carpet, a bright heat lamp stood in the corner, and he had a nest of pillows to sleep on. A canister of compressed gas hung against the bars like a hamster's water dispenser.

"Looks like Gwen's taking care of you," he said.

_Yes, this is much better. But I still wish to go home._

"I don't think getting you home will be an easy thing. We think we know what sort of star you came from, but as to which one or how to get you there... that's another matter."

_Is all well with you?_

"I'm quite busy at present. The game is beginning to unravel."

_Your rival is threatening you?_

"In a way. I'm getting ready to make some important moves, and he may well anticipate me. I have to be very careful."

_Rivalries are not so complicated where I'm from._

"I shouldn't think so. You know each other's thoughts, so there's no point in trying to outsmart anyone."

_One must be strong and wise. Then one prevails._

"What sort of things do your kind have rivalries over?"

_Mostly territory and mates._

"I find that surprising."

_You think that such things are not important?_

"You seem highly intelligent. If all your kind are like you, it seems that you should have progressed beyond such simple things."

_In all the time of our people, our needs have always been the same._

"And do you enjoy that? Competing for living space and social privileges?"

_To live life is to enjoy it. To live it well is to triumph. What need is there for anything more?_

"Were you happy there?"

_I was at peace and content._

"Foreign concepts to me."

_You never seem satisfied._

"I suppose I'm happy that way, though. Always another challenge, the thrill of the chase."

_But what are you chasing? Why not catch something and be at peace?_

"I think humans have a different concept of happiness from yours. Yours is quite uniform for all your people, whereas ours varies a lot from one individual to another."

_That must be why you have so many rivalries._

"You're probably right."

"Good conversation?" Hart asked, coming into the holding area.

"Most intelligent conversation I've ever had with someone who's never been to university," Sherlock answered. "Even though he's never been exposed to a lot of the things I tell him, he still understands nearly everything I say."

"Does he understand mathematics?" Hart asked, sounding skeptical.

Deciding it was worth a try, Sherlock asked Watchful, "Do you know what two plus two is?"

_Four, but I don't know what it means._

Sherlock laughed. "I couldn't ask the question without thinking of the answer. He read it in my mind, but he doesn't recognize our numbers. Let me try something else. If you were following someone and you wanted to catch up to them, how could you determine how long it would take?"

Watchful's eyes spun around very quickly for some time. Then the eyes that rarely moved glowed. _At home, when another is ahead of me, I can observe distance between landmarks. By keeping time and watching, I observe his rate of movement. By watching my own progress, I find my rate. Comparing the two, I can determine how long it will take before I reach him._

"Brilliant."

"Got it right?" asked Hart.

"I don't think his kind are really taught these concepts, but he understands them readily enough. He seemed to invent the formula on his own. It's quite sound."

"So he learns as quickly as thinking."

"As quickly as he can be taught. There's so much potential here... Watchful, if you're not able to return home, would you like to learn from me so you can help me with my work?"

Watchful tilted his head from side to side. _I'm not so fond of chasing as you are... but I would like to help make you content._

"I've got to go now, but I'll see you again soon."

_Be careful. Rogue is full of tricks._

"I know. Thank you for your concern."

* * *

After Hart took them back to Baker Street, he swallowed the homing device and went on his way, leaving the vortex manipulator behind. Sherlock and John then went into the disreputable parts of London to find less conspicuous assistance than Scotland Yard could give.

Sherlock knew that handing the money over had to come last; that way he could be sure he had the homeless man's full attention. "You'll know you've found the right location when you see very dangerous-looking men guarding it. If you're seen, your only hope is to make them believe you are completely stupid and have no interest in what goes on there. Understand? These men are killers without scruples."

The man nodded. "We'll find 'em. What's being guarded then, eh?"

"That I can't tell you, but it is of the utmost importance. Here's ten pounds; there'll be a hundred more when I'm sure you've found the right place."

As they walked away, John whispered loudly, "A hundred pounds! Do we have a hundred pounds to just hand over to homeless people?"

"I'll have Mycroft put it in my expense account. Don't worry yourself, John." Sherlock took out his phone and sent a prearranged text to Hart. _Require your asstnc; come 221 asap._

"Back to Baker Street, then?"

"Yes." Sherlock tucked his phone away and got out the receiver Jack had given him at Torchwood. "Hart is still in London. We'll know in a few minutes whether Moriarty has found him yet," he said, putting in the earpiece.

"Can't you tell by listening?"

"Not for certain. Moriarty's men might not say anything when they find him, and he might not either. And he can't just go along saying 'nothing yet, nothing yet' because he might be observed talking to himself, which is a dead giveaway of being wired."

"Right... of course."

The cabby barely gave them a glance as they got in—a man holding an unusual electronic device with one earbud in was probably not nearly one of the strangest things a London cab driver saw on a daily basis. They were nearly back to Baker Street before Sherlock froze, listening intently.

"Something happening?" John asked.

Sherlock held up a hand to silence him. Such was his concentration that John had to pay the cabby... or maybe that was Sherlock's plan. Then they were hurrying up the steps to the flat. Sherlock made a very quick switch, plugging a set of speakers into the audio jack of the receiver. John couldn't help but shudder as Jim Moriarty's sinister voice permeated their home.

* * *

"Good evening," Jim said as Hart joined him in the limousine. "I trust you had a productive day."

"Very," Hart answered. "And I'm sure you did as well."

"Indeed I did. Sherlock found my bug very quickly, didn't he?"

"Yes. When did you put it in? I never noticed."

"One of my men did it while you were asleep, as per my orders. Did Sherlock return the gesture?"

"Oh, no, he wouldn't try something like that," Hart said, nodding and winking.

Jim smiled, knowing Hart was speaking for the benefit of those listening in, but letting him know quite clearly that he was lying. "Well, you won't object if I give you a thorough search anyway?"

"I _love _it when you give me a thorough search."

"Since my device was in your jacket, we'll save that for last, shall we?"

"I think that's a good idea." Hart removed the jacket and tossed it aside.

"Would you care for some champagne while I conduct the search?"

"I'd be delighted." Hart accepted the bottle Jim handed him from the cooler and set about uncorking it.

Jim set two glasses on the console. "Just be careful to drink slowly—it's an oh-five."

"Oh-five? That's not very old, is it...?"

"_Nineteen_-oh-five."

"Oh. Good lord, people still have wine from that year?"

Jim smiled again. He loved an appreciative companion. "Once you're done pouring, I'll have your boots for examination."

"Yes, sir."

He made the process last, stripping Hart one article at a time and being careful to talk about each step at length, savoring the idea of Sherlock listening in. "That leaves you in just your underpants."

"And the jacket. Don't forget the jacket," Hart said enthusiastically, draining the last of the champagne from his glass.

"I don't think we need look any further. There's obviously _something_ tucked away in those pants."

"Maybe I'm just very pleased to see you."

"Let's find out, shall we?" The smile was a full-fledged grin now. Hart played along so obligingly. "Well, well, you were right after all. Nothing but you. But while we're here, I don't think we should let a nice healthy erection like that go to waste, do you?"

"Absolutely not."

Jim kissed Hart forcefully, taking hold of him at the same time. He pulled Hart's jacket closer with his free hand, wanting to be sure that Sherlock could clearly hear the moans of pleasure. How satisfying it was, he reflected, to have one's own limousine where one could do whatever one liked, drinking champagne, pleasuring another man for the benefit of the sadly innocent adversary spying on them... he couldn't help chuckling.

As Jim had hoped, Hart cried out when his climax came. He kissed him again and continued his attentions until Hart's breathing began to settle. "You know... wouldn't it be just _awful_ if Sherlock _were_ listening in?" he said innocently. "For a virgin to overhear the orgasm of another man... I'm not sure what it would do to him."

"Probably do him good," Hart declared. "It's Watson you should be concerned for. Doubt he's seen any action for years; bound to put him in an awful state." He laughed dryly. "May I say, you're incredibly good with your hands. Exceptional marks in handicrafts as a child, no doubt."

"I learned a lot of outdoor skills, believe it or not. You wouldn't think so to look at me, would you?"

"Really? Did you do horse riding as well?"

"Of course."

"And fencing?"

Jim sat back on the seat beside Hart and pulled the other man against him. "More about me later. Let's finish the search, shall we?" He took up the Napoleonic jacket and turned it in his hands. "Well now, here's some new stitching..."

"Yes. Had to repair it after Sherlock tore your bug out."

"Hm." Jim took a switchblade knife from his pocket, flicked it open and began slicing through the new threads. "Well now, look at this. It looks suspiciously like a bugging device. A little more compact than mine... that's very good work." He closed his knife and examined the bug.

"How did that get there?" Hart asked, grinning up at his captor.

"Oh Captain, my captain... bringing a bug back on you, and you assured me that there was none. You know I'll have to punish you for this."

"Yes, please. You know I couldn't just tell you about it... I mean, they've got to think I'm on their side, right?"

The game was so much fun at this stage. Surely Sherlock could hear his gleeful expression in his tone. He'd have to compose himself if he wanted to make his next move convincing. "Sherlock, can you really have thought I wouldn't find this?" he asked, directing his voice toward the device. "You want me to think Hart's on my side, I want you to think he's on yours, but can either of us really know?" He looked back at Hart. "What else are you hiding from me?"

"Nothing," Hart said instantly.

"Sherlock knows I'm no fool. He knew I'd find the bug. He'd make another attempt to locate me. My guess is a homing device. I've searched all your clothes, which means it must be on you. Or _in _you. Am I right? Did they inject a tracker under the skin?"

"No. There's no injected homing device. I've got nothing left to hide from you, quite literally."

Again, Hart was winking in a way that told Jim he meant that there _was_ a homing device somewhere on his person.

"Captain, if I find that you're lying to me..." He flicked the knife open again. "Back at the town house, I have equipment for finding such devices. If there's one on you, I _will_ find it. Wouldn't you rather come clean now?"

"I've told you the truth." Hart reached up to touch Jim's face, a bold move in his position. "Nothing to hide, and nothing to fear."

"You'd better be. Because I won't stop at killing you. I will make you scream long and loud, and this time not out of pleasure." He pressed the knife tip against Hart's shoulder until a tiny bead of blood appeared.

Hart laughed. "Well, it's just a good thing there isn't one, then."

Reluctantly, Jim rolled his window down. "Say goodbye, Captain. This may be the last time Sherlock hears your voice."

"Bye, Sherlock," Hart said cheerfully. "Hope to see you again soon."

"Good night and good luck," Jim said, overemphasizing his Irish lilt. He tossed the bugging device out of the car and closed the window again. "Now. Where is it?"

"I swallowed it."

Jim pressed the intercom button to speak to the driver. "Colt, do we still have ipecac syrup in the first aid kit? Oh, and a sick bag?"

"No need for that," said Hart. He sat forward and began systematically gagging until he pulled a capsule from his mouth. "Kept it in the lining of my throat."

"There's a skill you don't see every day." Jim smiled. "Never mind the ipecac, Colt. Crisis averted. Take a very circuitous route to Number Three. We're not going to the town house tonight."

"Very good, sir," the driver answered.

Jim got out his phone. "I need you to be quiet while I make some calls. You might take this opportunity to get dressed."

"I might." Hart set about the task, but he took his time.

Jim slipped the encapsulated homing device into his breast pocket for safekeeping. He watched Hart pull his clothes on while he talked with a select few of his plentiful contacts. The pieces were coming together for another big play. He hadn't thought it would happen so soon, but so much the better.

When everyone had their instructions, Jim put his phone away. "I'll need to switch your phone off now."

"I've got a text from Sherlock. It's old though... he just wanted to know if you'd found me yet, and he already has the answer, so no need to bother with it." Hart gave his phone to Jim.

Jim looked over the text. "Code?" he asked.

"Naturally."

Jim turned the phone off and removed the battery before tucking it away with the homing device. "Now..." He reached down to adjust the seat, which moved forward before reclining. "Might as well make ourselves comfortable. It'll be a long ride."

Hart eagerly placed himself in Jim's arms and caressed him reverently.

"Still mine?" Jim asked.

"Always yours."

Jim allowed himself to be satisfied with the answer, even though he still didn't venture to trust Hart completely. Hart was not just an accomplished liar—he was a _practiced _one. He didn't twitch, didn't blink, didn't glance to the left... it was a beautiful thing to see. But it meant that he could appear to be lying or appear to be telling the truth whenever he chose. It was a golden skill in an ally and a deadly one in an enemy. Fun either way.

"Oh, John, we have high times ahead," he said, and laid a kiss on Hart's forehead.

* * *

_*evil laugh* Hart's beginning to make ME wonder about his loyalties... okay, yeah. Review please. ^^ _


	17. Ambush

_Thanks for the reviews as always; keep them coming. ^^_

* * *

Chapter 17: Ambush

XXX

John listened stoically while Moriarty searched Hart, but when the obscene moaning began, he stood up abruptly. "I... I'll put the kettle on," he said, not able to think of anything else. It was becoming his standard escape line. "Oh, god," he muttered as he walked away.

He grimaced when he heard Hart's outcry even from the kitchen. At least he knew it was over. He wandered back out again. Moriarty was saying something about outdoor skills... horse riding... fencing... _what? What the hell are they talking about?_

Then he'd found the bug and scolded Hart. Then Moriarty addressed Sherlock, and for the first time John saw a visible reaction in his friend. Sherlock leaned toward the speaker slightly, his eyes staring intently at it, as if he could see Moriarty's face.

_"You want me to think Hart's on my side, I want you to think he's on yours, but can either of us really know?" _Jim's voice got a little quieter, as if he'd turned away from the bug. _"What else are you hiding from me?"_

_"Nothing," Hart said instantly._

_"Sherlock knows I'm no fool. He knew I'd find the bug. He'd make another attempt to locate me. My guess is a homing device."_

"Oh, no," John murmured. Moriarty was a good guesser. Maybe as good as Sherlock. They were in trouble. Moriarty said he had equipment for finding homing devices... _Of course he has,_ John thought ironically.

_"...I won't stop at killing you. I'll make you scream long and loud..."_

"That's it; he's dead," John concluded.

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed angrily.

A moment later Moriarty was bidding them farewell, and then there was nothing but an abrupt popping from the speakers, a loud wind sound and the noise of passing traffic.

"God, we've sent him to his death," said John, running a hand through his hair.

"Maybe," Sherlock answered.

"How can you be so calm?"

"It does no good to panic. Anyway, I thought you didn't like him."

"I don't. Doesn't mean I want him to die. I'm a doctor; I want people to live."

Sherlock went back to the beginning of the recording and began listening to it over again. "I'll just have to save him then, won't I? Do you know someone with a car we can borrow?"

"Um, yeah... probably. I'll see."

When he came back to the living room a few minutes later, John said, "My mate said we can use his. He'll bring it round, but we'll have to give him cab fare."

"We'll put it on the expense account. You'll do the driving. Let me know the moment it's here." Sherlock resumed listening to the recording. "The town house," he said suddenly. "He wouldn't just say where he was going, even if he's sure we don't know the way there. I'm certain that was a ruse."

"What does it mean?"

"I don't know yet... but there's a possibility he knew about the tracking device; Hart may have told him in some silent way and Moriarty only made his threats for our benefit."

"You can't wager his life on that."

"No. Even if he didn't know about it, he suspects it. In which case, all Hart can do is buy time."

"Because he's counting on us to help him."

"Right. He'll lie about it right up until it's found. He's an artful liar. But if he's caught in it, Moriarty will certainly make good on his threats. If he already knows about the device, he'll be laying a trap for us."

"But we haven't any choice."

"No, we haven't."

* * *

"I can just imagine them scrambling around now, trying to follow us," Jim said with a soft smile. "We'll arrive well ahead of them, and by the time they're ready to try anything, we'll be set."

Hart loved the expression on Jim's face. His current glee reminded Hart a bit of himself a year or two ago, when he'd had less of a conscience. He knew he'd never had quite this much power to back his cleverness, though. Hart was devious, but Jim was the king of a very large realm of clever deceit. _He would have been a god to me in those days. Nearly is now._

"Is it going to be a big trap?" Hart asked.

"Yes and no. You'll see."

"Will I get to be part of it?"

"Of course. You're the bait."

"And what will we do after? It won't take all night, will it?"

Jim gave him a knowing look. "Eager to go to bed?"

"Can't blame me," Hart said.

"That's what keeps you coming back, isn't it? It's not loyalty—it's the sex."

"Well, it's _really_ good sex!"

Jim chuckled and stroked Hart's hair. "You're a silly fellow."

"I know. It's not just that, though. It's so much fun seeing the game from both sides. When I'm with Sherlock I can't wait to get back to you, to see what you'll do next. When I'm with you, I'm eager to know what Sherlock thinks about it."

"You want the game to go on, then. You don't want it to end anytime soon?"

"You can't be thinking of ending it already! It's so much fun." Hart looked a little pouty. "You're not going to kill him tonight, are you?"

"No... I could probably kidnap him, though. But I agree, he's more fun when he's loose. Gives him so much more room to dance. We'll see. Do you know if Sherlock will suspect a double bluff?"

"I should think so."

"That's what I thought. But is a triple bluff going too far? Or might he suspect that too?"

"What kind of bluff?"

"The homing device isn't in you anymore; he's bound to assume that it won't be by the time he finds you. But will he think you'll still be near it, or will he assume that I'll be taking this opportunity to trap him? Or will he know that I know he's clever enough to foresee that and should I keep the device with you after all?"

"I don't think you should keep it right with me; that's too simple. You don't really want him to find me, do you?"

"I don't know. It could be interesting. I haven't given him time to get reinforcements; he won't want to involve the police if he can avoid it anyway. He knows once they barge in to arrest me there'll be no evidence to hold me on. So he'll come alone, or bring poor old Watson. If so, the doctor will be armed, and Sherlock may as well. If we can disarm them, we can have quite a bit of fun with them, I'm sure. And then we can let them go for another round of the game."

"Sounds lovely." John was smiling contentedly. Everything seemed almost perfect. If only Sherlock loved him, it _would_ be perfect.

* * *

"So," Sherlock said, keeping a close eye on the homing device's red dot on the GPS, "do you think Moriarty will take us on a wild goose chase, or will he keep the device where Hart is?"

"He can't have gotten it out of him already, can he? They haven't quit moving."

"Probably not, but they're well ahead of us and may very well have it out by the time we catch up."

"Didn't count on having a chase tonight," John grumbled.

"Neither did I... and Moriarty knows it. Whether he really intends to torture Hart or not, he knew we'd have to try to find him right away. Which makes me think Hart did let him know about the tracker."

"But we still can't just leave him."

"No, we can't take the chance. The question now is, will the tracker really lead us to Hart and Moriarty, or will it lead us to a swift end?"

"Don't say that. Not when I'm driving. Or doing anything else."

The tracker led them on quite a chase before it finally stopped.

"Pull over here," Sherlock instructed. He looked around them. They were out of the heart of the city in a high-end residential area.

"You sure he didn't go to the 'town house'?"

"He may have several residences or bases of operations. I doubt this is the one Hart was at before."

"So what do we do now?"

"Go in on foot; get the lay of the land."

"Just how dangerous is this?"

"Very."

"Shouldn't we let Lestrade or someone know where we are first?"

"I'm sending the location to Jack. He'll investigate if we don't respond in two hours."

_Two hours,_ John thought bleakly. _We could be dead in two minutes. Hart may already be dead._

* * *

"This is boring," Hart complained, blinking blood out of his eye.

"Patience," Jim said, not looking up from the cards he was dealing out on the small table in front of him. "They'll be here soon enough."

"Not soon enough for me." Purely out of habit, Hart tested the ropes binding him. He glanced at his jacket lying on the floor out of reach. He looked around the bare room. No guards inside; only Jim sitting at his table under the window where he couldn't be seen from outside. One look and Sherlock would know bloody well that Hart wasn't alone in the room, but he doubted the detective would know it was the consulting criminal himself who kept him company.

"It'll take them a while to figure out that the tracker is at the bottom of the well," Jim said, turning over three cards at a time from his deck. "Then they'll start looking at the cars and buildings nearby. Sherlock will see the limo tracks and know he's at the right place. Then he'll probably try to creep in close on his own while Watson hangs back in reserve."

Hart pictured Jim's suggestions. They did seem likely to be correct.

"He'll catch a glimpse of you through the window and figure you're in here with armed guards, never dreaming that the sentinels posted outside are supposed to let him slip by them..."

Hart caught some movement by the window then, and could almost swear he'd seen a pale face looking in.

"Rather than the direct approach, he'll try to start some sort of distraction to leave you with as few of your captors as possible. Then, when he's convinced enough of them are preoccupied, he'll come in after you himself. Very, very foolhardy of him—keeping himself safe ought to be his first priority, since he knows he's the only one who can match wits with me, and Britain will be lost without him. But he'll hardly send Watson, even though Watson has had military training. And that right there is proof that Sherlock isn't as emotionless as he claims."

"That's a good sign."

"Mm. Has he looked in the window yet?"

"Saw something. Not sure it was him."

"It was him. He probably thinks I'm not on the premises—miles away and safe. Which would probably be the slightly smarter thing to do, but it's been so long since I've seen dear Mr. Holmes up close and personal. I just can't resist."

"Can't blame you there."

A few minutes later, Hart heard the screech and pop of a flare or firework going off some little distance away. Then there was a crackling and loud bangs.

"Oh, nice diversion. Not much clout, but still effective," Jim said with a smile. "Now I really wish I could look out the window. But I don't want him to see me. Not yet."

"Sir," the voice of one of Jim's men came over the radio sitting by his draw pile, "someone's set off a bunch of rockets on the west lawn."

"Excellent. Take a few men and investigate."

"Fireworks," Hart said with a bemused smile. "Not exactly what I expected."

"Well, I did rush them. Interesting to know he just carries them about with him in case they'll come in useful."

"Yeah. Hope he hurries up and comes to save me soon."

"Sir," a new voice came over the radio, "he's entered the house through the back door."

"Good. From now on, maintain radio silence until the operation is complete."

"Understood."

Hart could see the hungry gleam in Jim's eyes now. He kept them intent on the basement door. After a few minutes, the door finally opened.

It swung open completely with a soft creak and a little thud when it hit the wall. On cue, two heavily armed gunmen emerged from the other two doors in the room.

"Oh, how simple you are," Jim scolded the gunmen. "You fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book! Come in here, Sherlock. I know it's you."

* * *

"Your knowing it's me is no reason for me to come into the sights of your henchmen," Sherlock retorted from the hall.

"Oh, it's not like you're not trapped anyway. And they'll have Watson down here too, any minute. You did bring him, of course?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, it's pretty damned difficult trying to follow a homing device while you drive. You'd want someone with you, not to mention someone to raise the alarm if things go badly. Backup from Torchwood or something."

Sherlock stepped into the doorway and pointed a handgun at his nemesis. "So, you _do _know about Torchwood. Been tapping my apartment again?"

Moriarty grinned. "Come here, old son. Sit down. Have a game of cards."

Sherlock looked to his left and saw Hart sitting against the wall, just as he had been when he looked through the window. "Still alive, I see."

"So far," Hart agreed.

"So, I shoot you, what happens?" he asked Moriarty.

"The usual," Moriarty answered. "Your friends die. Captain Hart and Doctor Watson. You lose your queen, knight and bishop, and all I lose is my king."

"Aren't you forgetting that capturing the king is the object of the game?"

"That's just chess, Sherlock. This is life. In this game, outsmarting the queen is my object. Conquering the king is yours."

"Who does that make my king?"

"Mycroft, naturally. An afterthought to me, of course, but a keystone to government and law enforcement. Once you're gone it'll be simple to deal with him, too."

"But you'll be dead."

"But my legacy will be alive and well. You can't kill an idea. And my ideas will stick far longer than yours. No one gives a damn about being able to identify tobacco ash, but they sure as hell love making money the easy way."

"Professor," the radio voice interrupted, "operation complete."

Moriarty picked up the radio gleefully. "Excellent. Bring Doctor Watson down—gently. Don't hurt him."

"Yes, sir."

"You see, I have all the aces now." He moved one of his playing cards into an empty space at the top of his playing area.

"I thought we were playing chess," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is it my move? Colt, if Holmes hasn't dropped his weapon by the time Doctor Watson gets down here, shoot Watson's kneecap. The right one, I think."

Sherlock dropped his gun. It could be a bluff, but he couldn't risk it.

"Good move, Sherlock. Very good move. Now, get over there and let the nice man tie you up."

"Tie me up? This isn't your style."

"I think I get to decide what's my style. Move."

Sherlock allowed his wrists to be tied behind his back. One of the gunmen relieved him of his phone and pushed him down next to Hart as John was forced into the room.

_Damn. He should have gotten away when he had the chance. Now it's going to be tricky at best._

The look on John's face showed that so far he was able to keep his PTSD at bay, but all those guns pointing at him could change that at any moment. He seemed relieved to see Sherlock and Hart both alive, but quite nervous about the rest of the situation.

"Good of you to join us, Doctor Watson," Moriarty said in a friendly tone.

"Go to hell," John muttered.

"Not tonight. Go on and join your friends. You all need to be tied up in a nice little row. Like packages at Christmas."

"You all right?" John directed at Hart, who did look quite a mess with a bad cut over his eye, a smaller one on his neck, and blood stains from who-knew-what on his shirt.

"I'll live," Hart said. "But for how long, I don't know."

When they were all on the floor together, Moriarty took a picture of them with his phone. "Oh, that came out well," he said, obviously pleased. "John, come and see."

Hart got awkwardly to his feet and walked across the room, hands still tied behind him. He looked at the phone when Moriarty held it out to him. "Oh, I like that. Watson looks so indignant. Sherlock's gorgeous as ever. Gonna untie me now, or wait?"

"Mm... now," Moriarty decided. "I may tie you up again later tonight, though," he added coyly.

John glared daggers at Hart. "To think I felt sorry for you. I was _worried_ about you. You piece of—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, giving him a hard look.

"No," John answered fiercely.

Their eyes remained locked for some time, John looking distraught and Sherlock trying hard to convey as much firmness as possible. _You have to get out of here. At the first opportunity, you have to go._ He knew John didn't want to leave him, but it was definitely for the best.

"There you are, my pet," Moriarty said when Hart's hands were free. "I think it all went very well, don't you?"

"Yup. Just like you said," Hart answered with a smile. "You're absolutely amazing."

"I know." Moriarty addressed the gunmen: "Leave us for now, but be ready when I call." When the doors closed again, he looked back at the prisoners and rubbed his hands together. "Now. Time to play."

* * *

_Oh no! The boys are in the clutches of the most fiendish fiend whoever fiended... yeah, that's not a word. Please leave a review. ^^_


	18. Assault

_Thanks for the review; they keep me going. I need to know people are still interested and if they're enjoying it. I definitely have a lot of plans for this fic, but they won't go far without support. ;)_

_Warning: Non-con in this chapter. Sensitive readers be warned!_

* * *

Chapter 18: Assault

XXX

Sherlock knew that whatever Moriarty meant by "play," it would be far from chess or tiddlywinks. He needed to get John out as soon as possible, but at the moment there was no opportunity. He would have to bide his time.

Moriarty came a few paces nearer his captives and gave them a small smile, as if this meeting had been arranged weeks ago and they were all old friends. "I've decided you need to lose something tonight, Sherlock."

Sherlock kept his expression neutral, eyes fixed on his adversary.

"I've taken your freedom, but that's only temporary. Captain Hart wants the game to go on a bit longer, and I don't blame him. That means I can't take your life either."

He still didn't move, but he sensed John relaxing slightly. _Don't get comfortable yet, John._

"I could take your friend from you," Moriarty said, tilting his head toward John.

And John tensed again. Sherlock knew John wasn't afraid to die, but that was little comfort. The best way to protect him at the moment was to go on showing no reaction.

"I could probably manipulate these circumstances to take your brother from you, but that wouldn't be nearly as much fun. Besides, Mycroft Holmes offers the promise of a lot more games later on... take him away and things get far too easy. He's the oil that keeps this machine of a country running." He began to pace slowly. "I could take your pride..." He smiled again, more maliciously. "Oh-so-easily, Sherlock. You'd get it back, though. I had something more permanent in mind. Like your virginity. You could lose that tonight."

Sherlock continued to stare back at Moriarty with no change in expression, but he could feel John barely containing his outrage. _Stay calm, John. A reaction is what he's looking for._

"I could always take a finger or something, but that's so crude. And disabling you isn't what I want to do. If we're to go on playing the game effectively, I don't want you to be handicapped. I could take your sanity... that would probably take more than one night, though. Time is pressing. As it is, we may have to relocate." Moriarty stopped pacing. "I like the idea of taking your virginity. Don't you like that idea, Captain?" he asked, turning to Hart.

"Well..." Hart was frowning.

"What's the matter?"

"You know I wanted to be the one to take that."

"I know, but after all, a victory for the master is a victory for the servant."

"Sure, but... I wanted to get it from him without coercion. That would have been the real victory."

"Oh, he'll give himself up willingly, won't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock went on staring. He sensed John's discomfort rising quickly.

Moriarty smiled. "Doctor Watson doesn't understand. You do though, don't you, Sherlock?"

"I'll give myself up because John's life depends on it," Sherlock replied flatly.

"You see?" Moriarty looked very pleased.

"It's still duress," said Hart.

"Technicalities. Tell you what: a victory for the servant is a victory for the master. I'll let you be the one to do it. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Hart's frown lightened a little. "I would... I'd rather the circumstances were different..."

"I'm handing you a _huge_ favor here. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"I know. And I'm grateful. Could I just talk to him for a moment?"

"Be my guest."

Hart went to kneel in front of Sherlock. At this proximity, Sherlock could see that the cut over Hart's eye was genuine; probably the skin had split as a result of a fist or blunt object connecting with his brow, as evidenced by the bruise forming around the cut.

"You bastard," John hissed.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said. "We don't have time for that."

Hart put one hand up in front of his chest, blocked from Moriarty's view. "That's right. His patience won't hold out." As he talked, Hart spelled "bugged" in sign language with his concealed hand.

Sherlock gave a small nod. Moriarty could hear everything they said, even though they supposedly had some privacy. "So, I guess you'll finally get what you wanted."

"Sherlock, I don't want this—not this way. You should know that."

"But you're going to go through with it."

"I have no choice."

"There's always a choice."

Hart opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Sherlock could see his face change slightly as he went through the ramifications in his mind. If he refused to agree with Moriarty's plan, the game would be up. Hart would almost certainly be killed, or worse. Sherlock and John might be killed, too. His face became resolute. "You're right." He reached out to run a hand through Sherlock's dark curls.

Sherlock didn't move.

"All right, then. I love you, Sherlock." Hart started to get up.

"Hart," Sherlock said quickly, stopping the other man from leaving. "It's all right. I'll consent."

"Sherlock—" John started.

Sherlock turned his head toward him. "Stay quiet and wait, John," he said firmly. He knew John would understand that he was to watch for his opportunity to escape. He looked back at Hart. "We just need to stall as long as possible." Sherlock subtly mouthed "vortex manipulator" and glanced to the side. Hart looked at John and realized that one of the doctor's sleeves seemed to stick out a bit where something was concealed on his wrist.

"Right." Hart stood. "Looks like we're as agreed as we can be under the circumstances." He looked around the room. "Can we do it somewhere with a bed, though?"

Moriarty's grin was nearing Cheshire cat proportions. "That can be arranged. I'll just go reposition a few cameras in the guest room and then I can watch from the comfort of the observation room. Colt," he called.

Sherlock was sure that "Colt" was not the henchman's real name—the nickname probably came from his knowledge of guns or skill in procuring them.

"Keep an eye on our guests until I give the word; then leave a guard with Doctor Watson and escort Mister Holmes and Captain Hart to the guest room."

Colt nodded. "Understood."

* * *

Hart was not looking forward to his time alone with Sherlock. _Oddly enough,_ he thought with irony. _Any other place, any other time, any other circumstances..._ He'd had such plans. Sherlock would let him in little by little until he couldn't deny that they were in love, and _then_ they would share intimacy. They would take their time and Hart could show him all his wonderful tricks in gradual stages so the detective wouldn't be overwhelmed...

_But no, I have to take him all the way in one night. This is not what I wanted at all._ He glanced at Sherlock, who was walking beside him, hands still bound, expression still stony. _He's doing this for Watson. To give him a chance to use the VM without being seen. Once he's sure Watson's safe, he won't cooperate with anything Jim says._

Colt ushered them into the guest room and locked the door behind them. Sherlock immediately looked up and around at all the cameras in the room. Hart untied his hands.

"I take it Moriarty can hear as well as see us?" Sherlock asked.

Hart shrugged. "Probably."

As if in confirmation, Jim's voice came from a speaker in one corner. "I have a little added incentive for the two of you. If Sherlock comes within half an hour, I'll let both him and Doctor Watson go free without any further interference or harm. That's a very generous offer, seeing as I'm going to have to give this place up for lost and seeing Sherlock ejaculate is all I'm getting for my trouble."

_Damnation,_ Hart thought angrily. _Less and less time to work with. This is going to be torture for both of us._ There wasn't even any guarantee that Jim would honor his word when all was said and done. "Sherlock... I'm sorry."

"Save it," said Sherlock. "I'd like to ensure Watson's safety as well as my own; the less time we waste, the better."

"Well, you're not going to have an easy time of it if you're angry the entire time. I just want to be sure you understand that I don't want it to be like this."

Sherlock tossed his coat and scarf into the small armchair by the window. "Fine. I understand. How badly are you hurt?"

"Oh, this?" Hart looked down at his stained shirt. "This isn't even my blood. Don't ask me whose it is. It was just for effect." He pulled the shirt off over his head.

Sherlock took off his blazer and started undoing his shirt buttons.

"Here, let me do that." Hart moved toward him and Sherlock immediately dropped his hands. _God, he's like a little lamb. He knows there's no way out, so he won't fight._ He wanted to apologize again, but he knew there was no point. _Jim, why did you have to do this now? Why couldn't you let me take my time? Why couldn't you be satisfied with the way the game was going...?_ Jim must still not trust him. This was a test. _Well, I'll pass this test. __But I won't be happy about it._

He pulled the cuffs over Sherlock's hands and removed the shirt. He wanted to put his arms around Sherlock then, but he knew he wasn't welcome, and he might as well move things along, as time was short. "Have you ever done this before?" he asked, fairly sure of the answer.

"No."

Hart got out of the rest of his clothes, and Sherlock followed his lead. "How about on your own?"

Sherlock put on an impatient expression. "I experimented a bit, like anyone, but nothing ever came of it."

"Nothing?" _Are you saying you've never ejaculated? Ever?_

"Scarcely anything."

"God... Jim," Hart directed at one of the cameras, "I don't think I can do this in half an hour."

Jim's chuckle came over the speaker. "Not my problem, champ. Just do your best."

"Fine..." Hart looked Sherlock over and wished he had more time to just stare at the beautiful pale body. "Listen, if there's anyone... or even any_thing_ that turns you on, go ahead and think about that. We'll need all the help we can get."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "There... really isn't anything."

"Shit," Hart muttered. He'd been hoping Sherlock might be able to make use of some memories of that woman John had told him about, but apparently not. _He really is asexual. Damn. Damn, damn, damn._ "Never mind, then. Come on." He took Sherlock by the wrist and pulled him onto the bed.

They sat with their legs awkwardly folded this way and that, and Hart gripped Sherlock's shoulders lightly to hold him steady for their first kiss. _This is so unfair. I wanted our first kiss to be out in the moonlight by a river or something..._ He pressed his lips to Sherlock's and moved very gradually. He was surprised when Sherlock began to mimic the movement, but then he realized that Sherlock wanted this exercise to be successful for Watson's sake. He would try to be a good kisser if it meant he could fulfill the task in the allotted time. It wasn't that he was warming up to the idea; it was that he was being scientific and mathematical and _genius-y _as ever. _Damn._

Hart ran his tongue over Sherlock's upper lip and felt him recoil slightly, but then his genius regained control over his instinctive disgust and his tongue came out to meet Hart's. _Such a determined learner. Damn._ He slid one hand slowly down over Sherlock's chest and pushed his tongue into the detective's mouth.

Sherlock held up pretty well, but after a few moments he pulled away, looking down with a thoughtful expression.

"All right?"

"I don't know why, but for some reason I didn't expect your saliva to taste exactly like mine."

Hart couldn't help a little snort. _I want to eat him up. Can't. Need to focus. Damn._ He slipped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him again. This time Sherlock followed his learning curve a little better, not flinching at all until Hart began to fondle his nipple.

"It's okay," Hart said softly.

"That feels... very strange."

"Yup. I'd give you more time to warm up to the idea, but it's time we haven't got."

Sherlock nodded and actually resumed the kissing on his own.

_I did not expect this. I expected him to be more shocked or something... He's so bloody scientific. Damn._ He pulled Sherlock down until they were lying on their sides, facing one another. Hart kept one arm around Sherlock's neck and slipped the other over his waist. He felt Sherlock's hand fall gingerly on his ribcage and was again amazed at his ambition. He could almost pretend that Sherlock wanted this. He kissed Sherlock's neck, opening his mouth a little more until he was giving a light suck to the soft skin each time.

For the first time, Sherlock shivered just slightly. Not a twitch of disgust, but an involuntary hint of arousal.

_Oh, thank god, he's alive,_ Hart thought grimly. _How long did that take? Five minutes? More?_ He pulled one leg up so his knee was barely resting on Sherlock's thigh and continued working with his mouth and hands.

Sherlock kept still for the most part, his arms around Hart in a loose embrace.

Hart looked up at his face and saw that Sherlock had closed his eyes—not like a child trying to shut out something scary, but like someone trying to identify a bird call in the forest. He couldn't resist pausing his progress to kiss Sherlock again, and when Sherlock kissed him back this time he _was _able to pretend that his touch was welcome and wanted. He worked his way back down again, moving his lips over Sherlock's nipple and then coming back to suck it gently.

At that point Sherlock's hands gripped rather tightly instead of lying limp. He opened his mouth to breathe deeper.

_Finally, we're making progress. Finally._ Hart looked down and saw that at last, Sherlock's penis was beginning to harden. _It's a miracle._ He licked and sucked some more, running his hand over Sherlock's side to his hip and then around to cup his buttock.

Sherlock's hands would relax a bit and then clench again as Hart introduced new sensations. He continued to breathe faster, but he didn't protest or pull away.

Hart slipped his knee between Sherlock's legs and pulled him closer. _We're nearly there. I never thought this would work..._ He felt both triumphant and disappointed. This still seemed off. He knew that even though things were progressing very well, Sherlock still didn't want him. _He never will, after this._ He kissed Sherlock's face tenderly, trying to convey his regret. _I wonder if he knows which side I'm on at this point. I want him to trust me, but... that's probably impossible now. _He pulled Sherlock over by the hip until his groin was pressed against Hart's thigh.

Sherlock shuddered and began to pant in earnest. He gripped Hart's side and rested his head against the older man's shoulder.

"We're close," Hart said quietly. "You can do this." _How long has it been now? Ten minutes? Fifteen?_ He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's ear and licked it, earning a small gasp. He held him tightly and began to rock his hips, firmly moving his thigh against Sherlock's growing hardness.

Sherlock was fairly clinging to him now, but he still didn't resist in any way. He seemed hardly able to bear the intense stimulation, no longer trying to reciprocate any of Hart's actions.

Hart knew he couldn't let up now. His own erection was rubbing against Sherlock's body, which probably didn't help matters... He slipped his hand down over Sherlock's stomach toward the source of the intense heat building between them.

"Wait," Sherlock whispered, his voice so soft and breathy that Hart barely heard him.

_If I just keep going, he'll ejaculate whether he wants to or not. I can pretend I didn't hear him._ But this was a chance to regain a little trust, and Hart couldn't pass it up. He paused his hand's progress at the top of Sherlock's pelvis. "Nearly there," he said.

"I know." Sherlock's chest was shining with sweat and rising and falling quickly with his panting. "All right," he said at last. "Go on."

Hart moved his legs back and began running his fingers lightly over Sherlock's penis, which was quite hard now. Sherlock twitched under his touch and his panting became ragged and uneven.

"John..." Sherlock's voice came out almost in a squeak between breaths. He was still holding on as if for dear life, and his face was pressed against Hart's chest.

_He never calls me by my first name._ To hear Sherlock say it in that way made Hart ache for release. He kissed the back of Sherlock's neck and stroked more firmly until he began to wring little moans out of his desired lover.

Sherlock choked out the name a second time as he climaxed in Hart's practiced grip. He went rigid and trembled a moment before falling back on the bed, gasping for breath.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Hart whispered in his ear, even as he reached down to take care of the tightness that was driving him mad. It didn't take long at all to finish.

As if he'd been waiting for the activity to be quite over, Jim's drawling voice came over the speaker again. "Bravo, Captain. I really didn't think you'd manage it. And here you got it done in just twenty-two minutes." He chuckled thickly, as if he were not breathing so lightly himself. "Unfortunately, the rules of the game changed a bit while you were so occupied."

Hart grimaced. _What now?_

"You see, it seems that some careless person allowed Doctor Watson to leave the room downstairs. I'm sure we'll find him in good order, but until then I can't allow Sherlock to go free."

"We completed our half of the bargain," Sherlock pointed out, his voice sounding almost normal again. "You were going to let John go anyway. The way I see it, there's no need for anything to change."

Jim laughed again. "My, my. You grew into your balls fast, didn't you, Sherlock? I like that. Oh, what the hell? I've sent for new transport and evacuation will start soon anyway. I'll end my turn here and pass you the dice."

"First chess," Sherlock grumbled, "then poker... now we're playing craps?"

"Monopoly," Jim corrected. "Now, I've got some things to attend to. Captain, get yourself dressed and Colt will bring you to meet me. Sherlock... you just sit there and look pretty and your friends will be along soon. I can't wait to see you again."

Hart indiscriminately used a corner of the bed's comforter to clean himself off a bit before getting into his clothes. Sherlock did the same, but before getting dressed, he rolled up the comforter and folded it over.

"Take this with you when you go. Burn it or something," Sherlock instructed. "I don't want it here when the authorities go over over everything. That's evidence against you, and I don't want John knowing what happened."

Hart was a bit surprised. _After all this, he doesn't want them finding evidence against me?_

"Later," Sherlock told him, clearly catching Hart's confusion.

"Okay." _If there _is_ a later. If Jim doesn't decide I'm not worth the risk anymore and kill me._

* * *

_Whew. Not sure what to say for myself... what do you say? Please leave me a comment. ^^  
_


	19. Action

_Thanks for the review, SebbyTiger. ^^ Hope you like this one too._

_I tried a little Gwen POV this time. Because she's a pretty cool character. ^^_

* * *

Chapter 19: Action

XXX

John's military sensibilities were telling him to disregard Jack's order to stay back until the police arrived. Still, he watched and waited while the Torchwood agents crept toward the large house in the darkness.

Jack was just signalling to Gwen to move to the side of the front door when the door opened.

"There's no need for all the stealth, Jack. They're long gone."

John heard someone say "Sherlock" in an unstable sort of yell and then realized that it had been himself. He left his hiding place and raced over the grass.

Jack holstered his gun. "Well, you're in one piece. Always a good sign."

"Yes. You should probably make yourselves scarce before the police get here," Sherlock advised. "They'll ask a lot of inconvenient questions about who you are and whom you work for."

"You sure you're not saying that under duress?" Jack asked, eying the open door suspiciously.

Sherlock stepped back and gestured inside. "Take a look if you like. There's no one here. And no useful information, either. Moriarty made sure to strip the place clean."

Jack nodded at the others and when Gwen failed to follow Ianto inside, Jack gave her a glare and a jerk of the head. She sighed and went in.

"I take it John went with them."

"He had little choice."

Jack folded his arms. "This shit's gotten pretty serious. Think he's in over his head?"

"I don't know. He wasn't badly hurt, and he still seems to think he's dealing with Moriarty adequately. But if he's wrong, the consequences could well be deadly."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

John wanted desperately to ask Sherlock what had happened, but he didn't want to in front of Jack.

"So, what made him scurry off so quick?" Jack asked. "Did he realize John had gotten well away?"

"He planned to abandon this place quickly anyway, since he knew John and I had found it. He can't use it as a headquarters or refuge anymore. But yes, I think John's escape was what finally set things in motion. He knew he didn't have long."

"Can we track him down again?"

"Can you track a helicopter in the dark?"

"He has a chopper?" John exclaimed.

"Hardly surprising," Sherlock said with a shrug. "With his resources he can get just about anything."

Ianto and Gwen reemerged from the house.

"Sherlock's right," Gwen reported. "It's completely clean."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think no one had been in there for weeks," Ianto added.

"Okay; let's get back to Cardiff, then," Jack said. Gwen and Ianto took hold of him as he finished setting the coordinates on his wrist strap. "Take tomorrow off, Sherlock. You look tired." He gave the detective a wink and the group disappeared.

Knowing the police would soon get in the way of a proper conversation, John turned desperately to his friend. "Sherlock... are you... what happened?"

Sherlock fixed John with a confident smile and took him by the shoulders. "You saved me, my friend. Once his bargaining chip was gone, he couldn't take anything from me."

John felt weak with relief. He wanted to hug Sherlock, but he managed to reduce the impulse to a grip of the arm. "Thank God. I was so worried..."

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured him. "You called Lestrade, I suppose?"

"Yes." John looked back toward the road. "That may be them coming now. He told me not to come back here on my own, but of course I was already on the way in with Torchwood."

Sherlock turned up his coat collar. "Well, let's get this over-with. If we're lucky they'll take our statements and let us get home without a lot of bother."

John agreed. He definitely wanted to get back home quickly. He glanced at Sherlock as they walked toward the approaching cars. His friend seemed to be unhurt. Altogether _too_ unaffected by the ordeal. But that was Sherlock all over. _He's fine,_ he told himself firmly. _Everything will be back to normal in the morning._

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had no stipulations about hugging Sherlock. She squeezed him hard and even dropped a kiss on the top of his curly head as he sat having tea in front of his laptop.

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock chided, not looking up at her. "The danger is well passed."

"I waited for you two to get home," she said, more to John because he was actually _listening,_ "but I fell asleep about half two and you _still_ weren't back..."

"The police always take a good while with questions and so forth," John told her soothingly. "But as you can see, we're both fine."

"I don't see why you have to go chasing down criminals yourselves... that part's for the police to do!"

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh and punched meaningfully at his keyboard.

They all fell silent at the faint sound of a knock at the lower door.

Sherlock's face brightened. "Won't you see who that is?" he asked Mrs. Hudson cheerfully.

When she'd gone out, John scolded, "She was worried, Sherlock. She stayed up half the night. Can't you at least be... nice to her?"

"If she was foolish enough to waste a good night's sleep, I hardly think I should encourage her in it."

John groaned.

A moment later, Mrs. Hudson ushered a man with tattered clothing into the room. "Sherlock, this man says he has information for you."

Sherlock sprang up from his seat at the table and faced the man eagerly. "Did you find it?"

"Found it all right, Mr. 'olmes," the man answered. "All guarded up like you said."

"Was it the first location?"

"The second."

"The second," Sherlock repeated. "Could you tell where the guarded object was?"

"Got a map," the man said with obvious pride. He pulled a large piece of brown paper from his shirt and unfolded it to reveal a charcoal drawing.

Sherlock spread the drawing on the table.

"There's guards here and here all the time," the visitor said, pointing out spots on the map. "There's been a man on the roof here; not sure if he's there all the time. Got a rifle. This is the main door, and there's others here and here, not usually guarded, at least not on the outside."

"Windows?" Sherlock asked.

"A few basement level. Couldn't get close enough to look in. And some ground level too; three spaced even-like along this wall, then one higher up at the back. Other side's just got one before the higher one at the back."

Sherlock and the homeless man discussed the map a bit more; then Sherlock handed him a wad of notes. "The hundred pounds I promised you. Now you'd do well to keep away from that place."

"Yes, sir. Let me know if you need anything else."

Mrs. Hudson let him out.

"So, that's where the chancellor's being kept," John said, hoping to prompt Sherlock to disclose what he planned to do next.

"Yes."

John tried again. "So, is it time to send in the troops? Mycroft has the meeting tonight..."

"Yes. That makes it ideal. Their focus will be on the negotiations with Mycroft. Not 'the troops,' though. Torchwood first, if anyone."

"If anyone? You just said it's ideal. It has to be tonight, doesn't it?"

Sherlock frowned at the map. "It should be. There's just one problem."

"What?"

"Hart. He knows I've narrowed it down to three locations. If he's disclosed that to Moriarty then they will be on their guard. Furthermore, if Moriarty loses the chancellor tonight, he may kill Hart in retaliation, or just on a whim. He's not exactly stable in the head."

"Changeable," John mused. From what he'd seen of Moriarty, he knew Sherlock was right. "We still don't know that Moriarty's behind the chancellor's abduction..."

"Not for certain. But I think it's far too great a risk to assume that he's not."

"You still think Hart's on our side?"

Sherlock looked up. "Have I given the impression that I _ever_ thought he was on our side?"

"Well... you seem concerned for him."

"Whether he's loyal to me or not, he's a very valuable tool. And if he is, then ensuring his safety should be a priority, don't you agree?"

"Yes..." John said with a subdued sigh.

"Even if he doesn't kill him, he's sure to take out some of his frustration on him."

"He'd probably enjoy that... he seems to think Moriarty's brutality makes him more attractive."

"That's a bit beside the point."

"I know. So, what do we do?"

Sherlock got out his phone and handed it to John. "I recovered this in the basement after Moriarty left. He left me that message."

John read the short line of text. _Until we meet again. xoxo_

"And this morning about seven, he sent another."

John thumbed over to the next message: _Miss u already. Play again soon. ~JM_

"I think it's time to send a reply."

"Test the water?"

"Right." Sherlock took the phone back. "Something simple..." he began entering text. "How's... Hart?"

"Think he'll answer honestly?"

"Maybe. Even if he doesn't, any reply may give us a hint."

John jumped when Sherlock's text alert went off.

"Hm. 'Was fine last time I looked down.'"

"What does that mean? Has he thrown him out of a window or something?" John asked worriedly.

"Or perhaps he's insinuating that Hart's been between his legs since last night."

John grimaced. "That's... revolting."

"And that's exactly the reaction he wants." Sherlock began texting again.

"What are you asking now?"

"Nothing." Sherlock finished his message and read it out. "'Then we'll have another round shortly.' I'm hinting that the game won't be as much fun without Hart in the mix. That should make him more reluctant to kill him."

"Is that all we can do for him?"

"For now, yes. In the meantime, we need to organize a strike to get the chancellor back. I'll have Mycroft negotiate for his release as if he is going to go ahead with the trade for immunity. Torchwood will liberate Straw. As soon as he's safe, the negotiations will be off."

"And if something goes wrong?"

"That's why I'm having Torchwood make the strike. This is likely to be our only chance. Nothing can go wrong."

* * *

John had confidence in Sherlock, but he still felt very nervous waiting for the hours to go by, waiting for Sherlock to brief Torchwood, for Jack and Sherlock to go over their strategy and the special equipment they could use to get an advantage over the criminals, for night to fall, for Mycroft to send word that he was on his way to the meeting place, for Torchwood to start their mission...

"Why are you going with them and leaving me here?" John asked, somewhat distraught by Sherlock's orders.

"I'm part of Torchwood, John. Besides, I need to be on hand in case of a sudden change of plan. You I need in a safe place as a backup source of information and communication."

"But I'm the one who was trained as a soldier. Shouldn't you be the one in a safe place?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "We've got two vortex manipulators among the four of us. Getting the chancellor out will be relatively easy. It's catching everyone responsible that will be tricky. Still, I'm confident that we will be successful." He nodded to John. "Have a cup of tea or something. You'll hear from me soon."

"Have a cup of tea, indeed," John muttered. But as soon as the others were gone, he did put the kettle on.

* * *

Gwen wasn't worried for herself, or even for the chancellor. Sherlock wouldn't be in immediate danger and he was in possession of one vortex manipulator, so she didn't spare him a second thought. It was Ianto who deserved most of her concern, armed as he was only with a gun and communicator. But she couldn't help worrying a little about Jack.

_Ridiculous,_ she told herself. _Even if he dies, he'll just spring back up like dandelions in summer._ But she couldn't help feeling that he took too many risks behind the notion that risking one's life was no risk at all for an immortal. She often thought that it did something to him, something unhealthy for his psyche. The more he died, the less he lived.

"Is everyone in position?" Sherlock's voice said in her ear.

Gwen pressed the button on her communicator. "Ianto and I are ready."

"Mycroft has begun negotiations. This is our chance."

"Okay, I'm going in," said Jack.

Gwen could just see Jack's long-coated figure crossing the open ground in the darkness in front of the large, dark building. She heard his voice as he greeted the men on guard. They waited until they saw a third man come out of the building to stand with the other two confronting Jack. Then she and Ianto began creeping toward the back of the building.

Already, things were going better than they'd hoped—the worst-case scenario was that they shoot Jack on sight. So far, he'd managed to engage them in conversation and even lure an extra man out into the open. As they crept closer they saw a man leave his post by a side door to go see what was going on at the front, leaving his companion alone.

Now Gwen had to make a choice: attempt to incapacitate this lone guard, or go on to the unguarded door and pray there was no one waiting to ambush them inside. She scanned the top of the building and thought she could just make out the gleam of a gun barrel in the dim light of a half moon. As expected, the gun was directed over the front of the building. All attention was on Jack.

Gwen jerked her head toward the lone guard and Ianto nodded grimly. She set the coordinates as quickly as she dared, not being very experienced with Jack's wrist strap, and teleported behind the guard.

As the guard started to turn around, Gwen brought her clasped hands down on his neck and then brought out her gun to hit him over the head for good measure. He hadn't gotten out more than a muffled groan, and with conversation at the front getting louder, she was sure no one had heard it. She lifted a hand to signal Ianto to join her.

From the front of the building she just caught Jack's voice saying "You try to contact him during the negotiations and he'll probably kill you." Amazing talent for arguing, Jack had.

Gwen shone a small flashlight at the door's lock and Ianto busied himself with picking it. The lock was old and not complicated. Soon they had the door open.

They descended a staircase and entered a narrow hall. There was a light in the passageway; Gwen didn't like that. She took the time to attach a silencer to her gun and directed it at the light. She appreciated that Ianto didn't question her. The light went out with a muffled eruption from the gun and the light tinkling of glass. They crept forward a few feet and halted when they heard a gunshot from outside.

She immediately felt her heart rate nearly double. Of course, Jack had to get himself killed. The plan sort of worked better that way. But it still sent a wave of concern through her.

A moment later, two men burst through a door ahead of them and it was all she could do not to raise her gun and fire at them. They crossed the hall and, from the sound, ran up a staircase opposite the door. Their eyes were too accustomed to light to spot the intruders in the darkness.

Gwen sucked in a deep breath and led Ianto to the door the men had just come through. She dodged to the far side of the door and entered the room gun first.

Only one guard remained beside the bound and hooded prisoner. His rifle was already in his hands and he lifted it as Gwen came into the room.

"Drop it!" Gwen yelled, but by the time the words were out she knew that they wouldn't be obeyed. She squeezed the trigger as Jack had taught her and saw the guard stumble back. The wound was (intentionally) not a fatal one and he desperately tried to keep his gun level enough to get off a shot. Gwen felt something sting her arm as if a wasp had flown through her sleeve, buried its stinger deep in her arm and burst out the other side. "Shit..." she hissed as she involuntarily reached to cover the wound.

Then Ianto fired his gun and the rifle dropped from the guard's hands. He rushed across the room and clubbed the guard as Gwen had done to the other outside. Then he looked back at his fellow agent. "You're hit?"

"Just a graze. Is that the chancellor?"

Ianto pulled the soft black bag off the head of the bound man sitting on a stool. "Are you Chancellor Straw?" he asked, removing the gag from the man's mouth.

The man nodded and Ianto moved to untie his hands. "Yes; who are you?"

"Ianto, wait."

They could hear feet running above them. The other guards would be there in an instant. But something wasn't right. Gwen moved closer to the prisoner and stared at him.

Suddenly, she tugged the gag back up and threw the hood over the man's head.

"What are you doing?" Ianto exclaimed.

"Just trust me!" Gwen grabbed Ianto's wrist and jerked him toward what looked like a closet door at the back of the room. She pulled the door open, tugged Ianto inside and closed it behind them.

Outside the door, they could hear the other guards coming down and exclaiming over their fallen comrade, asking what had happened. But Gwen hardly heard the noise. She and Ianto were in a small, comfortably furnished room. Another bound and gagged man sat on a comfortable-looking sofa, but his head was not covered.

"Lord Chancellor," Gwen said quietly. "I'm sorry we've no time to explain, but we're going to get you out of here. Ianto, I need your tie."

Ianto was apparently impressed enough by his co-agent's instincts so far to trust her judgment. He removed his tie and handed it to her.

Gwen went to bind the necktie around the chancellor's eyes. "I'm sorry about this," she said sincerely. "It won't be for long, I promise. You'll soon be safe." She set the coordinates of the vortex manipulator again and took hold of Straw's arm. "Stand up, please."

Straw stood, and Gwen felt Ianto grab on for the ride. Someone was at the door now, but it didn't matter. They were gone before it opened.

She took them to the basement where Sherlock had been held by Moriarty the night before. There she removed the chancellor's gag, freed his feet so he could walk and led him up the staircase and outside. "Nearly there," she said confidently. She was still worried about Jack, but the chancellor was safe. She was beginning to tremble with relief. She took the time to send a text to Sherlock: _Package secure._

One more jump and they were back at the SUV where Sherlock was waiting. They could already hear sirens in the distance. With the little detour they had taken, the chancellor would think she had guided him out of the building and along the way he had experienced a stumble in the midst of a great sudden wind or some such thing... he would chalk up the odd sensation of teleportation to an adrenaline rush or something.

Gwen removed the blindfold and untied the chancellor's hands before opening the back door of the SUV for him.

"Good evening, Lord Chancellor," Sherlock said pleasantly, in the midst of sending a text to Mycroft. "I'm glad to see you looking so well."

Straw looked around at his rescuers. "You're not what I expected," he said hoarsely, "but I'm very pleased to see you."

"We'll be leaving in just a minute or two. We have to wait for our companion, who is most likely playing dead at the moment."

"Are you sure he's playing?" Straw asked skeptically.

"Oh, believe me, if I thought there was any chance we might have lost him, I wouldn't risk your safety by sticking around. As it is, your captors are being rounded up and we'll soon be on our way. I'm sorry that we can't take you directly to Hanover Gardens; the crisis may not be quite over yet, and there's no sense in endangering your family. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes... of course."

A few minutes later, Jack emerged from the darkness and climbed into the driver's seat. "All in a night's work," he said with a smile. He reached back to offer his hand to Straw. "Captain Jack Harkness."

"Pleased to meet you, Captain." The chancellor shook his hand.

"Enough pleasantries," Sherlock prompted.

"Right, back to business." Jack revved the engine and sent the SUV in a tight circle before speeding them on their way.

* * *

In a small room in a small building in a small corner of London, Mycroft Holmes took his eyes off the papers in front of him to read a one-word text message: _Done._

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he said, shuffling his papers together, "but it seems I must cut our negotiations short. I have just received intelligence that the chancellor has been killed. You cannot expect us to give you anything in return for a dead politician."

The masked men across from him looked at each other, and the one in the back immediately took out his phone.

"Your intelligence must be mistaken," said the one who had done most of the talking. "Our plan was never to harm the chancellor."

"Perhaps you have an enterprising loner in your midst with plans of his own; that's no concern of mine." Mycroft tucked the papers into his briefcase and looked to his attendant. "Have the car brought up."

The attendant took out his own phone and sent a message.

"This is a waste of time," the man tried again. "Do you really want to cut this off now and have to arrange another meeting later? It's time you can't afford to lose. Your country's going to hell and the world's not far behind it."

Mycroft blinked at the man as if he were a child begging for a toy. "I'll take my chances with the devil over you, thank you."

The masked man brought out a gun from inside his jacket, and his companions followed suit.

"Oh, and I thought we agreed to come unarmed," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Really, gentlemen, this is no way to do business."

"You'll give me those papers," the man said in a dangerous tone. "If I don't have them in five seconds, your man here is getting a bullet in the gut.

With a bored expression, Mycroft reopened his briefcase. "Very well, but you'll be disappointed," he said, handing over a sheaf of papers.

As if on cue, the door burst open and special forces began pouring into the room, quickly making it cramped for space. The masked men whipped around to face them, but soon saw that they had no chance and dropped their weapons.

Mycroft lazily took the papers back and put them away again. "They weren't even notarized. They wouldn't have made you legally pardoned anyway." He took out his phone and sent a text to Sherlock: _Same._

* * *

_At last, the chancellor is safe. ^^ Hope I didn't represent him too badly. xp Hart will be back in the next chapter. Let me know what you thought of this one!  
_


	20. Allegiance

_Technically it's time for me to work on Big Game, but I had so much fun with the last chapter of this story I decided to write another. ^^  
_

_Warnings: Sex, language, violence, bondage... the works. Not for sensitive readers. (But if you're a sensitive reader, you probably quit reading long ago!)_

* * *

Chapter 20: Allegiance

XXX

Sherlock was home before midnight, much to the gratification of Mrs. Hudson. John seemed relieved too, though he showed it less dramatically.

"The chancellor is in a safe place," Sherlock reported. "You mustn't breathe a word about it to anyone until it's out in the papers."

"Oh, of course we won't," Mrs. Hudson assured him.

"Did you catch everyone?" asked John.

"Davies evaded us," Sherlock answered regretfully. "He was clever enough to keep well away from the action. But he'll be hard pressed to find shelter in England now that everyone will be on the watch for him. As for the rest, we caught every single one we knew was involved, and a few others we didn't. Mycroft and his crew handled their end with no casualties. Gwen was the only one who sustained an injury, and it was minor. She'll be fine."

"That's wonderful."

"Yes. There'll be a press release tomorrow morning."

"Good. People will quit preaching the sky is falling and stop trying to sell us 'Welcome Aliens' tee shirts."

"All back to normal," Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully. "I'll sleep better tonight knowing everyone's safe. Good night, you two."

"Good night," John answered, and Sherlock gave her a smile. "Think I'll get to bed, too," he said when she was gone. "And so should you. You've had a long day."

"I doubt I'll sleep until later," Sherlock replied. "My mind wants to turn over recent events a bit more. I'll eat something, though. That may help."

"Do that. Night, then."

Sherlock went to the kitchen and put the tea kettle on the stove. Then he set about scrambling some eggs. He hadn't eaten at all that day. He couldn't possibly do anything about Davies' escape that night, so he might as well refuel. The eggs and a cup of tea did help to calm his mind and make him think it might be possible to sleep. He brushed his teeth and went to his room.

He'd often slept nude in the past, but the night he'd been in Moriarty's capture he'd kept his shorts on, and tonight he did the same. It seemed wiser not to leave himself so exposed. At least, that was the brief explanation his subconscious had offered when questioned by his conscious. He didn't give it much more thought.

He had just settled down in bed when he heard a sort of rattling sound. He held his breath to listen, but it didn't come again. However, a few moments later, he heard a definite scraping, as if against the wall outside. Slowly, he sat up and looked toward the window.

Someone's head was definitely appearing in the window. Sherlock's blood ran cold.

_Don't panic,_ he told himself._ If it were an assassin he'd have shot me from across the street when I first got home. This is more likely a messenger than a killer. Still, best to be on guard._ He slid out of bed, walked purposefully toward the window and flung it open.

The surprised person outside was John Hart. "Sorry... did I wake you?" His boots were tied around his neck with a cord. Beyond that, Sherlock couldn't tell much in the darkness.

"Did you climb the wall without a ladder?"

"Yup. Decided it'd be best not to come in the front. John might not let me in after... you know. For that matter, _you_ might not let me in..."

"Don't be absurd. Come inside." Sherlock offered Hart a hand.

"Thank you." Hart took his hand and scrambled through the window, landing surprisingly light on his feet. "I confess, I don't think I could have climbed back down if you'd turned me away." He put his head out the window a moment to look back the way he'd come. "Yeah... definitely not a nice prospect."

Sherlock turned on his light. Hart was a sight. His expression was saucy as ever, but the cut over his eye looked worse than it had the night before, his mouth was swollen, and his stance said that he was in a lot of pain. "You look a mess."

"Sorry. I came straight here. Should have at least changed clothes first."

"Come with me." It was not a request.

Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown and led Hart to the bathroom where he retrieved a first aid kit from the cabinet. He half expected Hart to make some flirtatious comment such as "First your bedroom, now the bathroom... we're moving fast tonight!" But he was silent. The change was uncomfortable, somehow.

"Your cut's gotten infected."

"Yeah... didn't wash it properly after it happened. Too busy with other things." Hart seemed to be avoiding looking directly at Sherlock.

"To clean it out properly, we'll have to reopen it now."

Hart produced a knife from somewhere in his jacket and turned to the mirror. He hissed and then chuckled to himself as he scraped off the scabbed tissue. Blood oozed from the cut.

Sherlock moistened a cotton pad with alcohol and pressed it to hart's brow. Hart laughed again. He realized that this was Hart's pain laugh. "Try not to wake John."

"Okay." Hart still had a faint smile on his face as he reached up to take over holding the pad in place.

Sherlock cut generous amounts of flexible tape to secure a piece of gauze over the dressing. "Is there anything else that needs immediate attention?"

Hart was silent a moment, perhaps turning down a chance to say something suggestive. "I'm all right. What about you?"

"Me? I'm perfectly fine."

"I just thought... after what I did to you..."

"We made the best possible compromise under the circumstances. There's no use worrying about it now."

"I know that. But when you said you'd consent, I know damn well it wasn't because you wanted to."

"I agreed because I wanted us all to live through the experience," Sherlock agreed. "But I waited until I was reasonably sure that you were willing to die for me. It seemed that you were, even if it meant we'd all die in the end, anyway."

"So you believe me now? That I'm on your side?"

"Let's just say I was impressed by your performance, true or untrue."

Hart sighed and sat back on the edge of the sink. "What will it take? I mean, I realize that you can't possibly love me now, but I want you to know you have my loyalty."

Sherlock frowned. "I told you from the beginning that I wouldn't love you. I'm not _less_ likely to now, just because you were forced to molest me."

Hart smiled incredulously, raising his uninjured eyebrow. "It seems being so detached has its perks. If it matters, you're still technically a virgin, by the way. But you must be a _little_ upset with me at least?"

"Having gone over everything in my mind, I can't fault your decisions. Perhaps another way might have worked, but we can't know." Eager to change the subject, Sherlock asked, "So, why did he let you go?"

"He wants to keep things moving between you. He enjoys having me around, but never so much as when I've just been with you."

"It's my move, then."

"I wondered... did you get the chancellor back?"

Sherlock studied Hart's face for any sign of betrayal. "It'll be in the papers tomorrow anyway, so I may as well tell you. Yes, the chancellor is safe."

Hart smiled. "That's great. Wish I'd been in on the action."

"Did Moriarty say anything about it?"

"No... not directly."

"Did you mention anything to him?"

"I didn't give him any particulars..."

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted. "Come back to my room and start at the beginning. I want to know every detail. That is... if you're up to it."

"I'm up to it. Could do with a drink, though."

* * *

Jim had set everything up very quickly, but adequately. "You should be tied up and sitting against that wall over there, where you can be seen from the window."

"Okay." Hart looked from the spot Jim had indicated up to the basement windows. "I should probably look a bit battered, to help convince them it's not a trap."

"Good notion. Something ugly-looking on your face, and some blood stains on your clothes... Colt, you can take care of that, can't you?"

Even as Hart turned to see what Colt would answer, his instincts told him to duck. But he knew he was supposed to get injured, and that slowed his reaction enough for Colt's blow with the butt of his pistol to strike Hart above the eye, splitting the skin. He let out a small sound of pain and surprise before beginning to chuckle. "Okay, there's step one done."

"I'll just be a minute," said Colt.

Hart watched him warily until he was out of striking distance.

"Good, isn't he?" Jim asked with a smile.

"Not bad," Hart allowed, putting a hand to his brow and looking at the blood on his fingers. "He's not going to come back and cut me open, is he?"

"No, no. We've got blood handy for such occasions. You can use someone else's."

"Ah. That sounds like a good idea."

And so Hart had been bloodied, tied and set against the wall, Sherlock and John had showed up, and Hart had been forced to make some very difficult decisions, especially considering that he wanted to come through with both sides believing they had his loyalty.

_He's going to hate me,_ Hart thought. He wasn't overly depressed about it, not sulking or in despair... just grimly facing the fact. There had been little hope that Sherlock would learn to love him, but now it was certain he would hate him. Maybe he didn't yet. The shock of what happened probably hadn't sunk in yet. Hart leaned on the wall of the helicopter and closed his eyes, replaying everything in his mind. _Could I have been gentler? Would it have made a difference? Is that the closest I'll ever come to intimacy with Sherlock Holmes? _It was certainly the closest anyone had come, to date.

Jim didn't try to talk to him during the trip, the noise of the helicopter making normal conversation impossible, and Hart was glad not to have to think of anything to say just then. He wondered briefly where they were going. There probably wasn't room to land near the town house. But he soon left off wondering, knowing he would find out soon enough.

He was a little surprised that there was no blindfolding this time, no secrecy, no attempt to keep him from looking around. They had landed on top of a building, that much he knew. And he could definitely smell the sea. The night was overcast, so he couldn't tell much besides that. He pulled the wadded-up comforter out of the chopper and followed Jim to the door housing a staircase down into the building, aware of a henchman close on his heels.

"You'll like it here," Jim said as they emerged into a hallway. "You'll have your own room to yourself as often as you visit this place. It's a lot bigger than the town house. There's a pool downstairs, if you care to swim and a firing range in the basement."

"You'd trust me with a gun?"

"You're not stupid enough to try anything, are you?"

"No."

"I thought not. I'll show you your room and then we can go to mine. Abrams, take that comforter off the captain's hands. I want it disposed of."

The henchman took the comforter from Hart and they went on.

Hart's "room" was more like a luxury suite. It had a canopy bed, an armchair, an carved chest of drawers, large French windows leading to a small balcony, and a full bath attached.

"This is my room?"

Jim smiled and flashed his eyebrows at Hart. He looked almost like a normal, sane, friendly person.

"It's amazing. Thank you."

Jim cupped Hart's cheek and leaned in to kiss him gently. "Sorry you won't be staying in it tonight, but I'm sure you'll be comfortable in my room."

"I'm sure I will."

They continued down the hall and entered what could only be described as the master bedroom. A king-sized fourposter, inlaid wood furniture, a larger balcony, a larger adjoining bathroom, ornate sliding doors that housed a walk-in closet.

"What do you think?" Jim asked. "A bit lavish?"

"No more than you deserve," Hart answered, duly impressed.

Turning to the shadowing Abrams, Jim said, "You may go. I'll ring in the morning; see that we're not disturbed."

The man nodded, gave a quick "yes, sir" and departed.

"So. You seemed very concerned for Sherlock." Jim removed his tie pin and set it in a box on his bureau, then began removing his tie at a leisurely pace.

"Is that unusual? It was his first time." Hart began undressing, too.

"You argued with me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be disagreeable. I guess I'd built up a lot of hopes of seducing Sherlock over time. I didn't like being hurried like that."

"If he hadn't told you he would consent, what would you have done?"

"I didn't want to lose what little faith he had left in me. I suppose I'd have made a show of refusing to touch him. Then you'd have had to torture me or Watson or something until he gave in. I was fairly sure he would eventually. He's not the sort to hold his virginity above the lives of others, particularly not his good friend."

"And in the end, he got to keep that. But I may have to torture you anyway."

Hart felt a mixture of fear and excitement. He knew Jim didn't make idle threats, and he knew what sort of torture he usually went for these days. "Whatever you see fitting," he said respectfully.

"Speaking of fitting," said Jim as he tossed his shirt on a chair and opened a bureau drawer, "what do you think of corsets?" The object he pulled from the drawer was _not_ a corset, but a pair of handcuffs.

"They can be fun," Hart said, wondering whether Jim had much experience with the traditionally feminine articles. "Under the right circumstances."

"My thoughts exactly. There was a woman who wore them exceptionally well... but she's gone now. I was wondering about the masculine versions."

"I could help you pick one out, if you're really interested." Hart had paused in his disrobing when Jim did, both of them down to their trousers.

"Take off the rest," Jim prompted. "You won't have your hands free much longer."

Hart followed his instructions and Jim snapped a cuff on one of his wrists.

"Lie on your back," he said, directing Hart toward the bed.

Hart lay back and put his arms over his head, knowing what to expect. Sure enough, Jim threaded the open handcuff through the rungs at the head of the bed and fastened it around Hart's free wrist.

"How's that?"

Hart twisted experimentally. He could move around a fair bit, but he couldn't wriggle free. "Good."

Jim stroked Hart's brow, running his fingers roughly over the cut and collecting dark, sticky blood on his fingertips. He held his hand in front of Hart's mouth. "I'd lick it off myself, but I haven't had the chance to test you for disease; we've been so busy," he said in a doting voice.

Hart meticulously licked the blood from Jim's fingers, savoring the irony taste. When they were clean, Jim ran his hand down Hart's neck, chest and stomach to his groin and back up again. Hart sighed. He felt just the faintest stirring... but no deep arousal yet.

"Hmm..." Jim frowned and shook his head. "You don't seem very eager tonight. Still thinking about Sherlock?"

"It's a little hard not to right now," Hart admitted.

"Well, that's not good. I'm very jealous. Let me see what I can do to regain your interest." Jim kissed him roughly and went back to his bureau. "Choose a number, one, two or three."

Hart's reckless nature wanted him to say three, but he decided to play safe for once. "Two."

"Good choice."

_Oh... god._ Hart recognized the object in Jim's hand as a rasp—a tool for filing down horse hooves and other hard substances. Obviously Jim didn't go in for standard sex toys... at least not in his current mood. Summoning a little boldness, he asked, "What the hell was three?"

"A block of nails. I don't usually like to use that one... too much blood. One is a square of sandpaper." Jim smiled innocently.

"Charming." Hart watched the approach of the rasp with a thrill of apprehension that only imminent pain could give him. He tried to prepare himself for the worst. _He could disfigure me. He could render any number of small parts useless. He might rub all my skin raw until just existing is a torment._

"Now, tell me," Jim said softly, sitting on the bed beside Hart, "to whom do you belong?"

"I'm yours," Hart said without hesitation.

"Let's make sure you remember that, even when we're apart." Jim set the rasp against Hart's side and dragged it down his ribcage.

Hart felt his nerve endings crying out in protest as his skin was torn. He blinked hard and a breathy laugh escaped him.

"What is Sherlock to you, John?"

Hart took a few steadying breaths. "He's a toy. A diverting game to play."

"What do you want to do to him?"

"Break his heart and fuck him senseless."

"What am I to you?"

"A god."

"What do you want to do to me?"

"Worship you."

Jim looked pleased with his answers. "Good man. I've been offered love and loyalty, but very few give worship." He pressed his mouth to Hart's again and ravaged him with his tongue. He sat back and laid the rasp across Hart's chest.

The metal was very cold against Hart's skin. He could feel the sharpness of the hundreds of tiny teeth when he breathed. His nipples became hard and erect and he shivered, causing the rasp to slide down slightly. It left faint white scratches behind.

Jim withdrew to shed his remaining clothing and then returned to straddle Hart's waist. "Finally getting some results," he observed, reaching back to run his hand over Hart's crotch.

Hart shuddered. Jim's tease was getting difficult to deal with. The incident with Sherlock was nearly completely out of his mind now. He twitched again when Jim moved the rasp back up to his nipples and moved forward, placing half his weight on its smooth side and causing it to bite into Hart's skin. Hart was finding it difficult to keep his expression of pain down to his usual chuckling. Then he was presented with Jim's cock and he opened his mouth eagerly. He was being given intense stimulation, and he needed an outlet.

"That's it," Jim said softly, running his hands through Hart's hair and down his neck. "Worship me."

The smooth voice, the cold metal cutting into his chest, the hard member in his mouth and the caressing hands all spurred Hart to a hot, tight state. "Jim," he panted against the head of his captor's penis.

"Finish first; then I'll give you what you need. I promise."

Hart took him deep into his mouth, working away with his tongue, lightly scraping with his teeth and then sucking hard until Jim gripped the bed frame with one hand and Hart firmly by the hair with the other. He nearly choked when Jim began thrusting hard, but he managed to adjust to the new rhythm. A moment later he felt the hot ejaculate hit the back of his throat and he swallowed quickly, listening to the moan that told him Jim was satisfied. Knowing his preferences, Hart continued to lick and suck until Jim withdrew.

"You are good at what you do," Jim commended him as he dismounted and pulled the rasp away to reveal angry red scratches across Hart's chest. He kissed him and reached inside to taste his own semen. "Now you're going to come for me."

"Yes." Hart felt like he was almost at the point where he could come on command, he was so tight. He licked Jim's mouth reverently. He felt Jim's hand sliding down over his chest and he gasped in pain when it crossed the stripe of wounded flesh.

"Don't complain of the pain, now. You need to remember who you belong to."

"Yes, Jim."

"Ask me to touch you."

"Please touch me." Hart had no qualms about begging. Keeping one's pride was not something one attempted to do in the presence of Jim Moriarty. "Please, Jim."

"Of course, I will." Jim ran his hand up Hart's erection from base to tip and stroked him slowly. He lifted Hart's head and brought it close to his chest. "Suck me."

Hart took Jim's nipple into his mouth and sucked urgently, as if the action directly increased the pleasure he was receiving from Jim's hand. When he was gasping too hard to suck anymore, he continued to lick the rosy flesh until his vision went white and he fell back limp on the bed. "Jim," he gasped. "God..."

"That's me," Jim smirked. He brought his hand up to Hart's face. "Now clean up your mess."

Still dizzy with his orgasm, Hart awkwardly lifted his head and began to lick Jim's fingers clean. He realized his lips felt numb and the corner of his mouth stung. It was the least of his worries just now, really, but he wondered if it was bleeding.

"I have an idea for tomorrow," Jim said, smiling warmly. "I'm going to edit together the footage from the various cameras that captured your little adventure tonight, and we'll watch it together. Watch you jacking Sherlock off, and I'll shag you while we watch. How does that sound?"

"It sounds amazing," Hart panted, his breath still ragged.

"Good. It will give you something to look forward to." Jim kissed Hart's forehead. "Do you want your hands free now?"

"Please. I want to touch you. If that's all right," he added, realizing it couldn't hurt to overdose on respect.

"It's all right. Let me just find the keys..." Jim laughed, his face looking sane and friendly again. He set the rasp on the bedside table and went back to the bureau. "What did I do with them? Ah." He hurried back to the bed. "Here you are." He freed one hand and bent to kiss Hart's reddened wrist before opening the other handcuff and kissing that wrist in turn. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you," Hart said, though his abused wrists were throbbing from the way the metal had dug into him when he had strained against it.

Jim put the cuffs and keys beside the rasp. "I'm going to brush my teeth now; there's a spare toothbrush if you want it."

Knowing he was meant to accept the offer, Hart got up and followed Jim to the spacious bathroom. He did his best not to stare at himself in the mirror. His chest and side looked as if someone had taken a red paintbrush to him. His lips already looked a little swollen, and the corner of his mouth was indeed bleeding. He licked at it absentmindedly, looking over the cut above his brow and the bruise forming around it. _He certainly marked his territory well,_ he mused. A part of him cringed to think how long it would take him to heal, but another part of him was proud... even elated. _God, that was good._

A little later, he reflected that it had been many years since he had been with someone else, brushing their teeth in the nude. That made him smile, which made the corner of his mouth crack open again. The toothpaste stung a little there.

When they were done, Jim gave Hart a kiss that hurt a little in spite of its gentleness. "Ready to sleep?"

"Yes." Hart climbed into the enormous bed ahead of Jim and waited, facing him expectantly.

Jim turned out the lamp and nestled into Hart's arms. "Good night, John. You're forgiven for talking back."

"Thank you." Jim was pressed against Hart's wounded side but he managed to hold in the sharp stinging. He leaned over to lay a kiss on Jim's chest before resting his head on the criminal's shoulder. "Good night, Jim."

* * *

_Hart's not out of hot water yet... Comments and reviews welcome! They make me write faster...  
_


	21. Avarice

_Sorry it took a while; was working on New Life. xp_

_WARNING: Heavy sexual content in this one._

* * *

Chapter 21: Avarice

XXX

Hart's right arm was asleep. He didn't like the numb sensation, but he wasn't in a hurry to feel the pins and needles, so he didn't move right away. His head hurt and his mouth felt very dry. He breathed in deeply and savored the scent of the man lying against him—the one largely responsible for all the discomfort he was in. He reached over with his left hand to stroke Jim's chest.

Jim shifted until he could look at Hart easily. He seemed to have been awake for some time already. "Good morning," he said.

"Morning," Hart said with something like a smile. It was more than half grimace because Jim had moved off his arm, and the pins and needles had arrived.

"I'm going to be very busy today," Jim said, lightly running his fingers over the hand on his chest. "But I'll make some time for you this afternoon. After breakfast you'll get some tests done to see just how careful we need to be."

"Okay." It would be a pain, but at least it would take up part of the morning.

Hart stretched a little and shook his right hand back and forth to banish the tingling. Then he kissed Jim's shoulder and got up to stretch properly. He grunted in pain when the skin of his chest and side stretched. He took quick inventory and found that his wounds were closed, but throbbing. He pulled back the curtain from the French windows and saw that the balcony had an excellent view.

"Put something on and go out," Jim recommended. "I think you'll enjoy it."

Hart found his discarded shorts and quickly pulled them into place. The morning air was a little chilly, but he found it exhilarating. The balcony was about six stories up and overlooked a busy port city. Shading his eyes, Hart could make out a hazy shape that had to be a separate land mass in the distance. _We must be near the Channel,_ he concluded. He turned his eyes downward and strained to read a billboard above the street.

_"Charme du cœur"_ was the only part he could read, but it was enough.

_The _other side _of the Channel,_ _then_.

"What do you think?" Jim asked, emerging in a luxurious bathrobe and putting an arm around Hart's bare shoulders.

"Some people dream of owning a penthouse in France... you own the whole building."

"I can never bring myself to settle for _part_ of anything. But yes—we are in France. Travel time to destination and position of the sun would give you that, even if there weren't anything particularly French in view. I'm careful to keep my reputation here absolutely without reproach, thereby maintaining a safe haven. England can't touch me here."

"It's beautiful."

"Indeed." Jim planted a kiss by Hart's ear and then slipped back inside.

_Tease,_ Hart thought. He went in and closed the windows just as Jim opened the door to admit a man with a serving cart.

"Breakfast is served, sir_,"_ the man said with what Hart knew was a genuine thick French accent.

"Thank you, André. You may leave us."

"Very good. Ring if you require anything else."

"His English is very good," Hart observed when the door had closed again. "Considering his accent is so strong."

"I insist that all my help speak good English," Jim said, setting aside the lids of various dishes. "If they didn't, I would always suspect them of understanding more than they let on. That breeds mistrust and a lot of needless worry. Consider: it's simple enough for a man to prove that he speaks good English. It's impossible for him to prove that he _doesn't."_

"Better off with the devil you know."

"Exactly so."

Hart put on his pants and shirt before pulling Jim's desk chair over to the food cart. Jim sat in his comfortable-looking, stylish armchair. Hart thought he looked like a monarch in his Day-Off throne.

Jim poured coffee for them both. "The French like a light breakfast of mostly bread," he said conversationally. "They've recently become more health-conscious, and that's why we've also got fresh yogurt with peaches. You may put jam on your croissants, or dip them in your coffee."

_"Bon appétit,"_ Hart said with a smile. Jim seemed so pleasant this morning. He wished this would last.

But as soon as breakfast was over, the consulting criminal shooed him off to get his blood tests done with Colt and a couple of others.

_All men,_ Hart observed. There wasn't a woman in the place. Perhaps that was more of the "devil you know" philosophy: as a man, Jim probably found men easier to read, and therefore more trustworthy.

He patiently put up with the scrub-down, and the blood drawing and the urine sample. Then he was given a new set of clothes to wear while the old ones were washed. The jeans felt good, but he wasn't sure about the gray button-down shirt. It wasn't his style. Still, he liked knowing that Jim had chosen it for him.

"That's all, sir," Colt told him formally. "Is there anything you'd like to do to pass the time?"

Remembering what Jim had told him the night before, Hart answered, "Don't think I'll do any shooting right now, but I'd like to see the range."

Colt nodded. "This way."

"May I ask you something, Colt?" Hart asked as he followed along to the elevator.

"Certainly."

"Am I Moriarty's pet?"

Colt took a moment to consider. "You'd have to ask him that."

"No, but is that what the staff thinks of me? I'm just curious. See, I know I don't outrank you because I can't give you orders, but I'm closer to your boss than you'll ever be, and you've got orders to wait on me within reason. So, what does that make me?"

Again, he took his time, but when he spoke Colt sounded like he had been certain of the answer all along. "A mistress."

Hart smiled, appreciating the humor of it, but also the validity. "I guess I'll take that."

The shooting range was equipped with many different kinds of firearms, safety glasses, ear protectors, ammunition, targets and... gloves. Jim really didn't like getting his hands dirty.

"Mind giving me a quick demonstration?" Hart asked. "I'm sure you must be good, to be in Moriarty's employ."

"Very well." Colt secured a paper target in its clamps and sent it to the back of the range. Then he selected a semiautomatic handgun from a locked case, to which he had a key that hung with a few others on a chain around his neck.

Hart observed all of this casually, hoping the information would _not_ come in useful. He never wanted to need access to that case. _As if he hasn't got a perfectly good, loaded handgun in his jacket,_ he thought as Colt loaded the clip and snapped it into place.

Colt tossed a pair of ear protectors to Hart and planted himself in front of the target. Hart didn't feel that the hearing protection was necessary—many firefights had already desensitized his hearing to the point that handgun-fire bothered him only when it was right next to him. Still, he slipped the protectors in place.

Immediately, Colt raised the gun and fired six rounds. He stared straight ahead, blinking only once in the middle of his volley. When he brought the target back up, there were only three holes in the paper, one large and lopsided over the heart of the silhouette, the other two very near it.

_Not one hundred-percent accurate, but certainly guaranteed lethal,_ Hart surmised. _This man is used to gun fighting; he's no sniper. He's killed, and he's been shot at. He can handle any type of gun, but he prefers semiautomatic and automatic handguns. And I need to get out of here before I get any more turned on._

"Very impressive," Hart said. "It's easy to see why the boss keeps you around."

"Thank you." Colt was already picking up the discarded shells. He put the pistol back in the case and locked it again, giving the handle a light tug to be sure he had done so properly. "Would you like lunch now? It's just after noon."

"Good idea."

Lunch was a rich and satisfying array of meats in French sauces, steamed vegetables and raspberry petits fours for dessert.

"Anything else I can do for you?" Colt asked when he returned to the dining room to find that Hart had finished.

"I heard there's a swimming pool."

"Yes. Follow me."

In the pool's locker room, Hart found a pair of swimming trunks that fit him and headed out to the Olympic-sized pool. He found that Colt had changed into a tee shirt and shorts much more relaxed-looking than the suit he had worn before.

"You don't have to stick around," Hart said. "I'll be fine here for a while."

"Thank you, but I'll stay."

"Don't trust me not to swim my way out of here?"

"I'm your lifeguard," Colt replied flatly.

"Ah. I see. In that case, by all means, stay."

_Jim certainly is careful... _Hart wondered if Jim insisted on having a lifeguard whenever he swam. Probably so. He walked down the steps into the waist-deep water of the shallow end and breathed slowly, letting his battered body relax. Then he waded in further and floated on his back. The water smelled of saline rather than chlorine, and Hart winced when it stung the lacerations on his body. But then the pain eased and he closed his eyes.

A few minutes later he looked up to see Jim sitting at the edge of the pool, dressed in snug swimming shorts and dangling his legs in the water.

"Having a good time?" Jim asked. His expression was difficult to read. He looked interested; neither happy nor angry. But it could have been either.

"Yes." Hart turned over and forward-crawled over to grasp the side of the pool beside Jim. "Are you coming in?"

Jim eyed him without turning his head, the sideways glance making him look mischievous. "I could be persuaded. The boys finished processing your tests. You're clean. Which, to be quite honest, surprised me a bit."

Hart folded his arms on the pool's edge and rested his head on them. "Course I'm clean. I'm a saint."

Jim continued to stare, and though his expression didn't change, it did seem to become more amused. Then he slid into the water and put his arms around Hart from behind. "I'm glad the results were so good," he said softly.

"Oh, I am too," Hart agreed with a smile, keeping his grip on the pool's edge to keep their heads above water. He braced himself when Jim's hands touched his damaged skin.

"Do you think you could keep quiet enough for me to make you come without Colt noticing?" Jim whispered in his ear.

Hart's smile grew wider. "We can sure as hell try." He felt Jim's left hand already sliding down his side. "We should make conversation as subterfuge, though," he said, so far successfully keeping his voice steady.

Colt was sitting in a patio-style rocking chair, watching them with a rather vacant stare.

"I suppose so."

"How did things go this morning? Did you get a lot of business done?"

"I don't care to mix business and pleasure," Jim answered, fondling Hart through his swim trunks. "Tell me about Sherlock. What's he been up to, besides instructing you to spy on me?"

Hart fixed his vision on the tiled floor. "Well, he's been trying to figure out who kidnapped the chancellor, of course." He knew this was a dangerous subject to open, but if Jim found out he had withheld information from him, it could ruin everything.

"Oh? Has he had any luck?"

"Not a bit. But then, nothing's down to luck with Sherlock. He has got a short list of people he believes are involved. But it's unlikely they'll lead him to the holding location."

"I see. But surely he's got other resources he can use." Jim untied the drawstring and slowly worked his fingers in over Hart's pelvis.

"Yeah. He's also started putting together a list of possible locations. But he's short on time, so he may just have to take an educated guess soon."

"Hm. I take it negotiations are due to take place soon?"

"Mhm." Hart blinked rapidly as Jim's fingers began sliding along his shaft, coaxing him to erection. He could hardly concentrate on the conversation, but he knew he had to be very careful how much he said. How long had it been since Sherlock mentioned when negotiations would happen? Was that tonight? "Very soon, I think."

Jim moved his right hand up across Hart's chest to get a better grip on his left shoulder. Hart hissed in pain. "Easy," Jim said. He kissed Hart's wet shoulder at the base of his neck.

"How about the video you took?" Hart asked, his tone a bit forced now. "Did you get a chance to work on that?"

"Yes; it's all ready. I think you're really going to enjoy it. I'll have a copy sent to each of my little havens. That way we can watch it anytime we like."

"Great." It was difficult for Hart to keep his eyes open now. He gave up on the cover conversation and focused instead on breathing steadily.

Jim massaged Hart's balls now and then before going back to his firm stroking. "Are you close?"

"Yes," Hart answered, struggling not to pant.

"Good." Jim closed his fist and ran his thumb over the tip of Hart's penis. "How's this?"

"Very... very good."

Jim kissed the back of his neck and moved his thumb more quickly.

Hart couldn't help the panting now. His heart was pounding and his groin was tingling with a much more pleasant pins-and-needles sensation than the one he'd experienced that morning. He gasped and shuddered as his release finally came. His hold on the poolside weakened and he felt Jim supporting him.

"Hm... I think he noticed," Jim mused.

Hart stole a glance at Colt. Too his credit, their lifeguard showed no signs of discomfort, but he was definitely avoiding looking directly at them. "Blast."

"Oh, well. It was a very good try." Jim pulled Hart out into the water and kissed his mouth.

Hart kissed him back enthusiastically. Then he studied Jim's face. A few water droplets clung to the criminal's cheek, but his hair had stayed dry so far. His unreadable wall was gone, and he again seemed like a relaxed, cheerful person. Hart pulled himself closer again and licked the salty-tasting water off Jim's face, earning an adorable smile.

_My god... _Hart stared in wonder.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I just..." Hart hesitated, wondering if stating his thoughts would be seen as insubordination. Maybe it wasn't his place to say this. Besides, if there were any chance left that he could escape hellfire, this would damn him for sure.

"No secrets, John. Tell me."

Knowing it was now unavoidable, Hart caressed Jim's face and did his best to assume a very sincere expression. "It's just that I love you. And I hadn't realized it."

Somehow Jim did it again, only in reverse: his expression seemed to stay the same, but his eyes became cold. "Be careful, Captain. Sentiment like that could spoil our relationship."

Hart nodded slowly. "I won't let it."

"Good." Jim tugged Hart back toward the steps until they could stand easily with their heads out of the water. Then he held him tightly. "You're allowed to love me, as long as it doesn't get in the way. And as long as you don't expect the same in return."

"I understand." Hart rested his head on Jim's shoulder and closed his eyes. He felt another kiss on his neck and smiled contentedly.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I want you."

"Yeah?"

"Let's go upstairs."

"Okay."

"Colt," Jim called, "the Captain and I will be going upstairs. I'll summon you when I need you again."

"Yes, sir." Colt stood and waited until Hart and Jim were out of the pool and away from the edge before he left the room.

"He's good," Hart commented, quickly running a towel over his body.

"He is. One of my best. It would be annoying to have to replace him. Still, it's about time for rotation."

"Rotation?"

"Yes. I don't keep the same second-in-command for more than a few months. I'll give Colt a nice honorarium and turn him loose for a while. He can go on vacation or take a commission from another employer if he likes."

"You're a bloody nice boss."

"I try, I try." Jim put on another expensive-looking dressing gown and slippers rather than the suit he had left hanging in the locker room. He took Hart back to the elevator and they rode up to the top floor in silence.

_I really am like a mistress,_ Hart thought. _I'm much too familiar with him to be an employee, or even a paid companion, and he gives me gifts. But I'm not special enough to him to be a partner. He enjoys me, but he keeps me at a distance. Maybe he could love me, but he doesn't want to. It would complicate things too much._

Back at the master bedroom, Jim opened a cabinet on the wall opposite the bed to reveal a large flat-screen television. "Ready for the show?"

"Nearly." Hart quickly unfastened the buttons of his shirt and tugged it off one sleeve at a time. _Bloody nuisance, these button-down shirts._ Then he shed the rest of his clothes and set them on the desk.

Jim tossed his robe on his handsome armchair and took up a large remote control. "Let's get started."

His earlier solemnity seemed to have completely disappeared, and Hart was glad. He definitely preferred Jim's fun-loving side. And what an editing job he had done on that footage... at every point in the twenty-two minutes, one of the cameras had captured the best possible angle.

Hart could feel the heat rising before Jim even touched him. He lay on his stomach and watched the screen while Jim began to prepare him. One camera showed a perfect view of Sherlock's backside, and it was clear from the amount of footage from that angle that Jim enjoyed that view very much. As Jim's latex-covered fingers stretched him out, Hart felt his penis pressing against the bed. He knew he shouldn't be enjoying this so much, considering what he had put Sherlock through, but he consoled himself that watching the video now wouldn't hurt the detective. Surely playing it back was better than repeating the offense in person.

"I'll admit, I didn't expect you to get him to come within the thirty minutes," Jim said softly. "It was a beautiful accomplishment."

"Thank you," Hart said, grasping at the bedclothes. "I was a little surprised, too."

"You'd rather have been inside him, wouldn't you." Jim pressed his fingers in again, this time three inside the condom.

Hart grunted in a mixture of pain and pleasure. "Yeah... but I was trying not to lose all his trust at once." When Sherlock shivered on the screen, Hart felt a shudder run through him at the same time. _God, he's so hot._ The next shot was a closeup of Sherlock's face—eyes closed, lips parted, clearly concentrating. Hart squirmed a little, chafing his penis against the bed and leaning back into Jim's fingers. He moaned softly.

"Are you ready?" Jim asked, his voice heavy with lust.

"I'm ready. Take me, Jim."

"Say please."

Hart saw himself sucking Sherlock's nipple and felt nearly blinded with need. "Please, Jim." He felt the slick member press inside and again had a hard time keeping his eyes open. But he didn't want to miss any of the scene in front of him. When he moved his hand to Sherlock's buttock that perfectly angled camera caught it beautifully. "Oh, god," he breathed as Jim pushed in deeper. He heard Sherlock gasp and teetered on the edge, barely managing to hold back.

Jim was holding Hart's hip tightly; his other hand slid up and under to pinch Hart's sore nipple.

"Jim," Hart gasped, "I'm very close."

"Okay. Easy." Jim reduced his pace a little, moving deep inside and sliding back out slowly.

Hart lost track of what exactly he was saying. He wanted Jim to touch him, to take him roughly, to finish him quickly. But Jim didn't give in until Sherlock was panting hard and moaning Hart's name. Then at last he gripped Hart's erection firmly and thrust harder and harder. Hart looked blearily at the screen where Sherlock's semen was erupting over them and his climax finally came. Jim continued to ride him hard, but his mind could hardly comprehend it. His eyes watered and he was lost in pleasure.

When he came to himself, he felt utterly exhausted. Jim was lying half on top of him and looking at him with a devilish smile. He wanted to kiss him, but didn't quite feel up to it.

"That was even better than I hoped," Jim said, the devilish smile becoming a _smug_ devilish smile. "This will help when you're not with me."

Hart smiled and gathered the energy to get that kiss. "When do I have to go back?" he asked softly.

"Tonight, I think. I'll be busy anyway, and I wouldn't want Sherlock to worry himself sick, poor boy. I'm so greedy to keep you to myself."

"I find your avarice alluring."

"Charmer," Jim said in a scolding tone, but he looked pleased. "I'll send you back on the helicopter as soon as you're ready. Do your best to regain as much trust from Sherlock as you can."

"That, I can promise."

Jim rolled onto his back and stroked Hart's side absentmindedly. "By the way, I was wondering..."

"Yeah?"

"Was that your name Sherlock said at the end there?"

"Yes; he said 'John.'"

"I know what he said. I just wondered if it was _you _ he was talking to."

It took Hart a minute to realize what Jim was talking about. Then it came to him suddenly. Of course he wasn't the only John in Sherlock's life.

* * *

_Don't forget to leave me a comment! If you don't, you can't complain about what I do next. xD Have you figured out where Hart's true loyalty lies? I've known all along, of course, but I hope I'm keeping you guessing.  
_


	22. Acceptance

_Just cause I love this story, I'm doing another chapter before going on to Big Game. xD_

_No major issues in this one. After this chapter, John Watson shall be referred to as "Watson" and John Hart as "John." You'll see why. Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 22: Acceptance

XXX

Sherlock found the discussion of Colt most interesting. "At the town house, a man named Simmons was your principle keeper, correct?"

"Yes," Hart answered. He was lying on Sherlock's bed now, letting the detective spread a salve on his chest and ribs where Jim had torn him.

"So it would seem that Simmons is more or less in charge there, but he doesn't travel with Moriarty as Colt does. So it's likely true that Colt is the current second-in-command. The rotation could be very valuable information. Furthermore, since it was Colt looking after you himself, that means that either Moriarty trusts only the best to keep you in line, or he trusts only the best to keep you safe. You're either doing very well, or living very dangerously."

"Oh, it's the former. Jim's grown quite attached to me. He'd still throw me to the wolves to save himself, but I think he'd actually regret it now."

Sherlock pressed a gauze pad to Hart's side and taped it in place. "We can't assume anything. We can only explore the possibilities."

Hart was reluctant to mention the video, but he knew Sherlock wanted every detail so he pressed on with his story.

"So, watching your sexual stimulation of me triggered Moriarty's arousal," Sherlock said, concisely summing up what he'd been told.

"Yeah, pretty much. In fact, so successfully that he said he was going to keep a copy of the video at all his places so he could watch it anytime."

"And I take it that encounter is the reason for a good deal of the pain you're in."

Hart smiled. "Mm... yeah, I s'pose it is. I was pretty blissed out. Didn't feel it till it was long over. Afterwards we talked about me coming back here. He said he didn't want you worrying about me."

"How considerate."

"Yeah. Then he said... he was wondering about when you said 'John' in the video, whether or not you were talking to me."

Sherlock blinked. "You were the only one there."

"Yes, but... you were in a bit of distress. You might have been calling out for the person you really... trust and care for."

"That would be utterly illogical. The whole point of going through with it was to give John a chance to escape. I hoped he was well away by that point—which he was."

"Well, you never call me John. It's always Captain or Hart."

"Forgive me for the cliché, but I think we're 'there.' That sort of experience makes first-name basis a matter of course."

"I suppose."

"I imagine Moriarty had some ulterior motive for making this suggestion to you."

Hart thought it over. "Why would he want me to be jealous of Watson?"

"I don't know... I ate recently; I can't think properly. What happened after that?"

"Well, he gave me back my other clothes, all clean and dry; he walked me up to the roof. It was raining when we got back to England..."

"He bothered seeing you off."

"Yes; I thought that was sweet of him."

"Nothing about him is 'sweet.' He's playing you for a fool."

"You don't know him."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "No?"

"Not like I do."

Having finished dressing the wounds, Sherlock set the first aid kit aside. "I've known him longer than you have. Believe me, the moment you are no longer useful to him, Moriarty will end all contact with you, and if it's not too much bother he'll have you killed."

"Maybe so, but I'm not going to stop being useful to him, so that will never happen."

"I see. So, you meant it when you told him you loved him."

Hart licked his lips. "It's complicated."

"My IQ is a bit above-average. I think I can keep up."

"I do love him. It's not exactly a romantic attachment, though."

"Yet you plan to keep going back to him, continue to help him—why did you come back here at all? Oh, of course. This is how you're being useful to him. Trying to get close to me, to get information for _him._ I ought to throw you back out the window. And don't think I couldn't."

"Sherlock, stop." Hart sat up with a grimace. "I came back because I wanted to. Yes, Jim told me to come back, and yes, he wants me to gather information for him. But I want to be here. I want to be with you because I love you."

"Nonsense."

"It's true. And you know something? You're just like him. You associate with me because I'm useful. So I want to be useful to you so you'll keep me around. The only difference is, I'd do anything for you."

"And you wouldn't for him?"

"No... not _anything."_

"If I asked you to poison him, would you do it?"

Hart opened his mouth and shut it. After a moment he said, "You never would, though."

"That's beside the point. The point is, you _wouldn't_ do anything for me. You're deluding yourself. If this is love, I'm glad I'm not affected by it. It's made you take leave of your sensibilities. If you had to choose between the two of us, whom would you choose?"

"You, of course."

"You'd say the same to him, I'm sure. Do you even know yourself which side you're on?"

"I'm not just saying it. I do love you both, but there are differences between you. Enough to make me sure."

"I don't give you the sex you enjoy so much."

"I can get sex anywhere. Lovely as I think it would be, that's not what I'm after here."

"Then what are you after?"

Hart remembered the day in the pub—the day he'd sold his soul to the devil. "I'm after a thrill and a challenge. And now that I've been in this business a while, I've added a couple more things I'd like to get out of it. It would be nice to have requited affection, for instance." He sighed. "The trouble is, the better I am at playing spy, the less you trust me. I know I've played my part well and done despicable things, but the truest thing of all is that I love you. I understand if you can't love me back—Jim doesn't. I just want to be allowed to love you. To be close to you and not pushed away. I'll do my best not to make myself a nuisance. And I'll do whatever you say."

"You sound very desperate."

"I don't really care. I just want you to understand that loving Jim doesn't mean my love for you isn't sincere, nor does it mean I'm not on your side."

"You're certainly persistent." Sherlock leaned back on the bed away from Hart, his feet still on the floor, and put his arms behind his head. "As long as you're friendly with him, I can't possibly trust you. That would be very foolish."

"Okay, but supposing I'm telling you the truth? Even though it would be foolish to trust me, can you see what you're putting me through?"

"I tried to save you that anxiety at the beginning. You wouldn't listen."

"Have you no pity?"

"Little."

Hart pulled himself around and lay across the bed next to Sherlock. "Is there any condition under which you will tolerate my loving you?"

Sherlock regarded him thoughtfully. "I don't think there's any acceptable compromise."

"I'll settle for an unacceptable one."

"Human bondage is illegal in this country."

Hart grinned. "Well, we wouldn't have to tell anyone you owned me..."

"I'd lose Watson's respect. Something which, oddly enough, is important to me."

"Look, what if you could come to like having me around? You've kept everything strictly business so far. Can't you give me a chance?"

"It would make the inevitable end more painful for you."

"At least I wouldn't wonder what might have happened for the rest of my life."

"Would you go running back to him?"

"I won't let our relationship affect my loyalty."

Sherlock snorted. "You can't promise that. I study human behavior. I know what relationships do to loyalties."

"I'm working with Jack. I'm not letting our past interfere with that, am I?"

"You stayed with Torchwood because it lets you spend time close to me. If I left, you would too."

Hart groaned. "Look, you wouldn't be hurt by any of these suggestions, right? You're just worried about how it'll affect your game with Jim, or whether it will hurt _me._ Well, let me worry about me, and keep this separate from the game. If you give it an honest try and it doesn't work, that will be that."

"I know already that it won't work. And there isn't any way we could keep it separate. This is pointless."

"Fine, how about this: you want a thrill and a challenge as much as I do. If you let me in, it may well make the game more dangerous. It will certainly add a new element. Doesn't that interest you?"

"Now you're _trying_ to get me to use you."

"Does it matter?"

Sherlock rubbed his temples and glanced at the clock on his bureau. "It's half three."

Hart sighed. "Okay. I'm sorry for keeping you up." He sat up and looked around for his shirt.

"Don't leave."

Surprised, Hart looked down at him. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want him snatching you back until I'm ready. I don't want you going back to your flat. Or anywhere out of my immediate vicinity, for that matter."

"Okay... I can just kip on your sofa, I guess."

"No. John might murder you in your sleep. You stay in here and I'll take the sofa."

"Does he know?"

"About what happened after he teleported out of the basement? No. And I intend to keep it that way."

X X X

Hart woke with a bad headache and a stiff body. He took a deep breath and smelled Sherlock all around him. He opened his eyes and remembered where he was—unfortunately alone in the detective's bed. He got up slowly, trying not to tug the dressings Sherlock had put on him. He glanced in the mirror and thought how odd the one on his chest looked.

_Makes me look like a stripper or something._ He smirked.

He crept to the door and listened. He thought he heard Watson's voice, and then he definitely heard Sherlock's. He pulled his shirt on and sallied forth.

"There you are," Sherlock greeted him, glancing up from the paper. He was sitting on the sofa, still in his dressing gown, an afghan draped over his lap.

Watson emerged from the kitchen with a tea tray. "From what Sherlock tells me, you ought to be in hospital," he commented.

"Oh? Why, what did he tell you?"

"About Moriarty torturing you because you refused to rape Sherlock. I thought you were nothing but a dirty double-crosser, but you proved me wrong. Let me look at that cut." Watson set the tray down and descended on Hart.

Hart gave Sherlock a questioning look and the latter answered it with a smug smile.

"I'm fine," he told Watson. "Sherlock fixed me up last night. He used that cut-healing stuff he said _you_ put in the first aid kit, so I'm sure you couldn't have done any better yourself..."

"Maybe so, but I'm a doctor and if you refuse to go see someone at a hospital, the least you can do is let me have a look." Watson peeled back the gauze over Hart's eye and hissed in a breath. "That looks nasty."

"Sherlock disinfected it for me. It'll heal just fine."

"You should change the dressing after breakfast. Your mouth's swollen. Did he hit you?"

"Er... in a manner of speaking."

"Pull your shirt up."

Ordinarily, Hart would have loved the order, but coming from Watson in these circumstances it just wasn't appealing. He sighed dramatically and did as he was told.

Watson grimaced when he saw the extent of the damage. "And he did that with a rasp? God, the man's inhuman. This isn't all, is it?"

"I'm not dropping my trousers for you," Hart said firmly, pulling his shirt back into place. "Not unless we can go someplace romantic."

"I'd hit you, but you're in bad enough shape as it is. Now, look: you need to let someone check you over. I strongly recommend you go to a clinic. You could have internal damage. It could even be life-threatening if you get an infection. Don't you even care?"

"I'm. Fine." Hart insisted. "Jim's brutal, but he's careful."

"When you die of a colon infection, don't come running to me."

"Or an STD of the throat," Sherlock added helpfully, smiling and sipping his tea.

"Ugh." Watson grimaced. "Thanks, Sherlock. My stomach hadn't quite turned yet; you finished the job."

"Like I said, Jim's careful." Hart backed away from the zealous doctor. "Just give me a cup of tea and shut up."

Grumbling, Watson went back to the tray and poured a cup for Hart.

"So, I take it news of the chancellor's rescue is out?"

Sherlock lifted the paper so Hart could see the headline: _Straw Safe! Alien Invasion Proven Hoax._

"Ah, lovely. That's a job well-done."

"I think this may be why Jim sent you back so soon. He didn't want you to be able to see his reaction to whichever way the negotiations went. It would prove his involvement."

"Maybe. So, what do we do next?"

"We let the secret police look for Davies and we go back to Torchwood to amuse ourselves in the meantime."

Watson uttered a quiet sigh.

Sherlock turned to him. "What is it?"

"Oh... I was just thinking how dull it will be now that you've solved the case and you'll be back at Torchwood all the time."

"You're always complaining that you don't get enough sleep. Anyway, you can get on with your work at the clinic and such. Write up the case in your blog."

"You're... you're _encouraging _me to write my blog?"

Sherlock frowned. "It would seem so."

"You can call this installment 'The Last Straw,'" Hart offered with a chuckle.

"Oh, no. 'Grasping at Straw' would be better. Or even 'The Straw that Broke the Camel's Back...'" Watson said.

"Call it something a bit more dramatic and less hackneyed," suggested Sherlock. "'The Chancellor's Ransom' or 'The Traitor's Ruse.'"

"Eh, I'll think on it."

"Good." Sherlock got up and tossed the paper aside. "I'll get dressed and we'll be on our way."

"After Hart changes his bandages," Watson said stubbornly.

"I'll change them at Torchwood." Hart dunked a scone in his tea and ate it quickly.

"I really think what you did for Sherlock was very brave," Watson said.

Hart shrugged. "Did what I had to." Leave it to Sherlock to hide the truth from his flatmate and build artificial rapport between the two of them in one move.

"I've seen what torture can do to a man. You must be extremely resilient."

"Lot of experience."

"Having said that—you shouldn't go back to him. We were wrong to send you back this time. It's too dangerous."

_Aw, now he's worried about me._ "Thanks for the concern, but I disagree. I've learned some useful information for Sherlock, and Jim's never given me more than I could handle. He never keeps me long enough to do real damage. I'm quite enjoying the game."

"You and Sherlock don't take this seriously enough. One day he'll really be hurt and you won't be able to stop it. Your being so close to Moriarty puts you both in danger. Don't you think he's learning valuable information about Sherlock from you?"

"We're staying a step ahead of him. It'll be fine."

"You weren't a step ahead when Sherlock and I came to rescue you and got captured ourselves."

"Well, we learned from it: You shouldn't try to rescue me. He'll always let me go."

"You can't know that."

Sherlock came back into the room, adjusting the vortex manipulator. "You two arguing again? I hoped I'd heard the last of that." He sighed dramatically. "Come along, John."

Watson looked confused. "What... where to?"

"Oh, I meant the other John."

"Oh..."

Hart smirked and moved to the detective's side, taking him by the arm. "Later, mate."

X X X

"We're taking it easy today," Jack told them when they arrived. "The rift's quiet and we had a long night. Mostly we'll be studying artifacts that came through months ago and were labeled low priority."

"No action?" John asked disappointedly. "Boring."

"I'm going to see how Watchful's getting on," said Sherlock. "Let me know if you need help changing bandages." He headed for the stairs as the others began asking Hart what bandages needed changing.

Watchful was glad to see Sherlock. He jumped up in the air, turned slowly and floated back to the ground in a very slow back flip. _Handsome! It's good to see you. You've been in danger._

"A little. I'm doing just fine. You look well."

_I am. But I was afraid you wouldn't come back._

"I always come back."

_You're worried about Rogue._

"I suppose so. He is very useful, but also very dangerous."

_You don't trust him._

"No. It would be foolish to do so."

_Not foolish to trust. Foolish to be off-guard._

"I think it's safer not to trust at all."

_Safer one way. Riskier another._

"Why do you say that?"

_With trust he can help more. With trust he may become more trustworthy. Without it he will be less helpful. Less trustworthy._

"So, you're saying I should give him a chance?"

_You're more clever than he is; what harm could it do you?_

"If things went badly, he could be hurt. Innocent people might be endangered as well. He might even help my rival destroy me."

_As long as you are watchful, you won't let that happen._

Sherlock stared at the odd, fuzzy creature before him. Then he went to the communicator on the wall. "John?" he called. "John, could you come down here?"

A moment later, he heard John's voice. "On my way."

Sherlock went back to Watchful's cell. "I need you to read him for me," he said. There wasn't time to explain further before the time agent entered the basement.

"Watson, come here; I need you," John joked as he came in. "What's going on?"

"Come here," Sherlock ordered.

Looking curious, John went to stand in front of Sherlock, beside the cell.

Sherlock took John's face in his hands and locked eyes with him. "Do you still claim to love me?"

"Yes... to my own detriment."

"And would you die for me?"

"To protect you, I certainly would."

Sherlock released him and knelt in front of Watchful. "Well?"

_Rogue is saying yes. He is sure._

"Thank you." Sherlock stood again. "Very well."

John glanced from the alien to the detective. "Very well... what?"

"I'm going to give you a chance."

* * *

_Didn't see that coming, did you? xD Well, did you? Even if you're reading when this has been up for years, I'd still like you to leave comments, folks. I know I currently have 29 followers on this story and most of them don't comment. That's not very nice. Give a little back. ;)  
_


	23. Afterglow

_And now I'm supposed to be writing New Life, but I'm doing this instead. I procrastinate on my procrastination. Believe it or not, nothing shocking in this one. Read with confidence. ;)  
_

* * *

Chapter 23: Afterglow

X X X

_He touched me... of his own free will._ John couldn't stop smiling. He knew Sherlock had used Watchful to test his veracity, but he didn't care. _After all, I haven't lied about my feelings toward Sherlock, and I want him to know the truth. This is good. I'd lost hope..._

"John? You're gloating."

John looked up from the unidentified artifact he was supposed to be studying to see Jack's knowing look.

"Am I? Well... what if I am?"

"Progress?" Jack gave a subtle nod in Sherlock's direction. The detective was working with Gwen on the other side of the room.

John's grin grew. "Yeah, I'd call it that."

"Have you kissed him yet?"

"Not yet... can't rush these things, you know."

Jack snorted. "You? Not rush these things?"

"He's a special case. I'm trying to convert an asexual to homosexuality. It's like trying to convert an atheist to... polytheism or something. I dunno."

"Well, I wish you luck. For my own sake."

"Yeah, yeah. If Sherlock goes for me you'll be safe."

"Mm-hm. No more pestering."

"I've been good." John pouted.

"I guess so. I'm glad you're still alive, by the way."

"I'm touched."

"You're done with that creep now, right? Not going back to him?"

John hesitated. "I guess it depends on what Sherlock's planning. I've been able to learn some useful things for him. He may want me to try again."

"After what happened last time?"

"I know what I can handle, Jack. And you know it too. You know I enjoy pain with my pleasure. And Jim never did anything I asked him not to."

"You never did know what was good for you."

John sighed. "I don't expect anyone to understand. I just wish they'd quit pretending they know better than I do."

X X X

When the day was done, John and Sherlock said good night to the others and took the platform up to the invisible sidewalk where they paused so Sherlock could set the coordinates on the vortex manipulator.

"Let's not go straight home," said John.

"Why not?"

"I'd like to take you to dinner."

Sherlock stared at John, contemplating. "Very well. Where would you like to go?"

"Do you like Indian food?"

"On occasion."

"Well, this is an occasion." John put his arms around Sherlock and took hold of his wrist to plot their course.

The strangers passing by took no notice of the two men as they disappeared. Their reappearance was not quite so fortunate.

"Oi, look where you're going!" an angry Londoner snapped, shoving Sherlock back into John.

John stepped to the side, made sure Sherlock had his balance, and took the burly stranger by the collar. John was the shorter by at least two inches, but his steely gaze seemed to add to his stature.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't touch my friend. Because I know you're very sorry. And you're never going to do it again."

The stranger snarled and moved to push John off, but then he felt a fist hit his gut and lost all his wind.

"What was that?" John asked kindly. "I didn't quite hear you."

"S... sorry," the stranger wheezed.

John smiled. "Oh, that's quite all right. Accidents happen. Off you go, now." He turned the stranger away from him and gave him a little nudge to start him walking. Then he straightened his jacket and returned to Sherlock. "Sorry about that little interruption. Hazard of teleportation. Shall we?" He offered his arm.

From the expressions ghosting over Sherlock's features, John got an idea of some of the things he was thinking of saying. _You didn't have to do that. You're very possessive, aren't you? You're going to get yourself arrested. Do you really think behaving that way is going to act in your favor?_ But he said nothing and took John's arm.

John held nothing back in his charming escort role. Sherlock seemed to be tolerating being treated like the girl side of the couple—not to prefer it, but to feel out of his depth enough that he could not find grounds to protest. He allowed John to seat him at the table, and to order for him when they were ready.

"You'll love the curry," said John. "It's a bit spicy, but very rich and satisfying."

"I'm sure it will be excellent." Sherlock put his fingertips together and rested them against his chin. "I suppose this qualifies as a date."

"Er, yes. I think it does. Ever been on one before?"

"Once, in university. A favor to someone's sister."

"Where did you go?"

"There was a mandatory concert and she had no one with whom to go, having recently broken a relationship."

"Hardly counts."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"There were some good strings."

John laughed. "I meant the date, not the concert."

"I found it... not disagreeable. But I'm afraid I'm still unsure exactly what one is expected to do or talk about on a date. According to John, a date is when people who like each other go out and have fun. But if those are the only qualifications, I've 'dated' several of my professors."

"Ha! Against regulations, no doubt. Got a naughty side, have you?" Sherlock didn't seem to know how to react to the teasing, so John left off. "Don't worry about conversation, though. There aren't any rules about what to talk about. I'd like to hear more about you, though."

"Don't you know all that you need to?"

"I know all I need to love you. But that just makes me want to know as much as possible. If a little is good, a lot is better."

The waiter came by with their water glasses and a plate of naan bread. "Would you like to see the wine list, sir?"

John considered. He was very good at holding his liquor, but he should be cautious not to go overboard on his first date with Sherlock. He wanted to impress, not disgust. "Can you recommend a red for me? Not too sweet, maybe a bit dry?"

"The Indus Cabernet Sauvignon is very popular, sir."

John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded. "Is that a seven-fifty milliliter bottle?"

"It is."

"We'll have the bottle, then."

"Very good. I will return shortly."

"Can you afford this?" Sherlock asked flatly.

John shook his head scoldingly. "You're not supposed to ask that, love. I'm treating you." He didn't mention that he'd discovered a wad of notes in his jacket after Jim's helicopter deposited him outside London. It was a detail Sherlock would want to know, but he didn't have to know _now._

They were silent a few moments. Then Sherlock asked, "Is this actually Indian music they're playing?"

"I dunno, honestly." John listened. It sounded decidedly eastern, but he wasn't the best judge. He shrugged. "They probably just play what they think people expect to hear in a place like this."

"Undoubtedly."

"You don't eat out much, do you?"

"Now and then, but not often. When I do I definitely don't choose a place for its music. It can serve only to distract."

"But you're not on a case; a little background noise helps fill in the gaps, I think." John took a drink of his water. He'd had nothing but coffee at Torchwood, and he felt a little dehydrated.

"I suppose the long wait for one's dinner in a place like this is supposed to be tolerable because of the supposedly enjoyable atmosphere and conversation."

John smiled at Sherlock's bluntness. But before he could say anything, the waiter returned with the wine and glasses and poured a small amount for each of them to try.

"Just the thing," John said. "Nice and full."

"I'm glad you like it, sir," the waiter said. "And what is your opinion?" he turned to Sherlock.

"It's fine, thank you," Sherlock answered.

The waiter set the bottle on the table. "Your dinner will arrive soon."

"Thanks." John poured half a glass of wine for each of them. "It's better than I expected. Now, um... this girl you went on the courtesy date with—did you like her?"

"Not particularly. She wasn't intolerable. But I invested no more time in her. Women, as a rule, are not to be trusted."

_I can't stop smiling. Everything he says is a delight. I've got such a crush._

"But you don't say anything about yourself," Sherlock pointed out. "I still know little about you, other than your being a former time agent with Jack. And having an odd taste in various cultures. Hipster globe-trotter or something."

John had to swallow quickly before laughing. "Fair enough. I'm not from planet Earth, but I do enjoy it. This is where humanity got its start, after all."

"And where are you from?"

"A little speck of a planet... low gravity field and thin atmosphere. It was difficult making the transition to larger planets at first. But after a bit of training you get used to it."

"Have you any family?"

"No. Not anymore."

"Good. I find that family is generally a deterrent to one's progress."

"Too true, I'm afraid. They always seem to think you owe them something."

"Precisely."

"I never knew my father, and I rather wish I hadn't known my mother. How I got to be a time agent is something of a small miracle. Had to bite and claw my way there."

"What time period are you from?"

"The fifty-first century, like Jack."

"And are you hoping I'll go back there with you?"

"Oh, heavens, no. I wouldn't mind living right here and now. Or we could try something else. Whatever you choose."

The food arrived then. John dipped a piece of naan bread in his curry sauce, took a bite and sighed contentedly. "Earth certainly has some good food. And a lot of variation. That's nice."

Sherlock seemed a little reluctant to eat, but he began picking at his food and seemed to like it. "Did you have to get vaccinations before you visited other times?"

"Mm, definitely. Black plague, for instance. Extinct in your time; alive and well in the dark ages."

"Do you have the common cold in your time?"

"Not as such, but there's a new virus that's evolved very similarly, and they haven't found a cure for it yet. I reckon there'll be some form of the cold as long as there are humanoids in the universe."

"Does going to another time seem the same as going to another place?"

John considered the question as he turned a bite of shredded chicken over in his mouth, enjoying the spicy tingling in his sinuses. "I s'pose it's pretty similar. Gotta read up on the culture and whatnot."

The time wore on as John told Sherlock about other times and other planets. Eventually he got Sherlock talking about some of his old cases, though he had already read Watson's blogs on them. Hearing it from Sherlock's point of view was an enjoyable new experience.

Sherlock ate a little slower than John, in spite of talking less.

"Do you want to take the rest of that home with you?" John asked. "It's after nine. Watson will be wondering where you are."

"Hm, you're right. My phone has been vibrating with increasing frequency. I'll give him my leftovers. That should appease him. It was a good meal, John. Thank you."

"You're very welcome." John waved the waiter back to their table and settled the bill. He left a healthy tip when they left.

X X X

"What sort of time do you call this?" Watson demanded when they appeared in the living room.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said carelessly.

"Evening, Doctor," John added.

"Do you know, I actually called that Captain Jack to see if you were still in Cardiff and he said you'd left_ hours ago_?!"

"We stopped for dinner," said Sherlock, holding up his takeaway box as evidence. "Would you like the leavings? It's Indian."

That did seem to give Watson pause, but he wasn't quite satisfied. "I was afraid that vortex thing had gone wrong and you were lost in time or something. Would it have killed you to answer your texts?"

Sherlock flipped his phone open and busied himself with it, extending the box of food at the same time.

Watson snatched the box from him and waited. A moment later, Watson's phone sounded an alert. He opened it and read out, _"'Sorry 2 worry u. Home safe.'_ Seriously? Is that all I get?"

"That and the box... yes, I think so." Sherlock settled on the sofa and took up the remote control, looking for the news.

John took pity on Watson's dissatisfaction and offered, "If it helps, we're sort of dating now."

"What?"

"We had a date, John," Sherlock said dryly. "You know... where two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

"I..." Watson gaped. "I... didn't think... that was possible."

Sherlock turned a disapproving frown on him. "Just because _you_ have had very little success in procuring dates of late does not indicate that it would be an impossibility for anyone else."

"No, I mean.. I didn't know it was possible for anyone to convince _you in particular_ to go on a..." Watson closed his mouth abruptly.

"You should get a fork for that," John pointed out.

"Right." Watson turned and retreated to the kitchen.

John sat beside Sherlock. "So, now that Watson's up to speed, I guess it's okay for me to sleep on your sofa? Of course, there _is_ another option..."

Sherlock shot him a knowing glance. "I may not know a lot about dating, but I'm sure that's not customary after only one."

"Oh, I wouldn't expect any intimacy. I just think we'd both be more comfortable on the bed."

"Well, I think I'm going to very coyly keep you at a distance for now." Sherlock turned his attention back to the television.

"That's your privilege. I'm the pursuer and you the pursued."

Watson emerged from the kitchen with a fork and a beer bottle in addition to the takeaway box. He looked more composed now, as he settled into his chair. "So, er... if I may ask, when did this start?"

"Today," John answered proudly. "Sherlock took my face in his hands and asked me if I loved him and when I assured him I did, he agreed to give me a chance. It was all very romantic."

"It was nothing of the kind," Sherlock retorted, eyes still on the screen. "It was very logical and forthright."

Watson chuckled. "Something tells me that from now on I'll have to get both sides of every story and weave them together to get an accurate idea of what's going on between you two."

"If you think that's hard," said John, "try taking your blog and comparing it to what Sherlock says and weaving those together to get an accurate view of what happened! Or try looking at something from Sherlock's point of view and then Jim Moriarty's and try to decide what's really going on in the world. That's a challenge."

Watson fell silent and began eating Sherlock's leftovers with a thoughtful expression.

"Speaking of Moriarty," said Sherlock, "we'll have to talk about him again soon, particularly if this... thing between us is to go any further."

"All right. But not tonight, eh? Let's just end tonight on a pleasant note."

"Very well."

A few minutes later Watson finished eating and stood to take care of his dishes. "I've got to be at the clinic tomorrow, so I think I'll turn in... You two should get some sleep, too."

"Yes, mother," John muttered.

"Good night," said Sherlock, ignoring John's remark.

"Oh, and if you're up in time," Watson added to John, "I can check your bandages before I leave."

"Very well," said John. "But as I keep telling you, I'm fine."

Watson headed for his room and Sherlock turned off the telly. "I'll fetch you some blankets and a pillow," he said.

"Haven't got a spare toothbrush, have you?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock hurried into the kitchen. "But I'll put the kettle on, and we can scald mine between uses. Will that do?"

John grinned. "Perfect." _Already sharing a toothbrush._

When they were both ready for bed, John went to Sherlock's room to say good night.

"If you need anything before morning, don't hesitate to help yourself or wake John up," Sherlock offered.

_So generous, _John thought, amused. "Okay. May I kiss you?" When Sherlock didn't answer immediately, John smiled and took a step back, hoping he hadn't spoiled his progress. "I won't push for it. Only if you want to, and only when you're ready."

"I'm still not sure where I want this to go," Sherlock pointed out.

"Of course. Take your time to think things over."

"Thank you."

"Thank you for giving me a chance. And I really enjoyed having dinner with you tonight. I hope we can do it again soon."

"Perhaps. Good night."

"Night, love." John felt warm and satisfied as he curled up to sleep on the sofa. If only Sherlock were in his arms, things would be perfect. He realized he hadn't been this content for a long time. _Safe here with Sherlock. Jim safe in France or somewhere. Wonder if he's thinking about me._ He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. ^^ Please leave a comment to at least let me know you liked the chapter, or even on something specific if you have time.  
_

_Note - I hope my choice of Indian wine was a good one. I'm really pretty clueless in that area. xp_


	24. Arrangements

_Thanks for reading and for the reviews. Keep them coming and I'll keep writing. ^^_

_WARNING: Another M for Moriarty chapter. Delicate readers beware._

* * *

Chapter 24: Arrangements

X X X

"Let's not go to Torchwood," said John, snuggling into his pillow on the couch.

"What do you propose we do instead?" Sherlock asked, not sounding at all interested.

"We could go on another date."

"All day?"

"Okay."

Sherlock folded his arms. "That was a _question..._ of the 'you can't be serious' variety."

Watson was fighting off a smile as he approached John. "I've got to go soon. Let me have a look at your wounds."

"Fine, fine." John sat up and pulled his shirt off.

Watson examined the scabbed over scratches. "They seem to be healing all right. You don't have to bandage them, but be careful not to overexert yourself or they could break open again. Understand?"

"No overexertion," John muttered.

"All right. Behave yourselves. And for goodness' sake, if you're going to be late getting home, text me!"

Sherlock acknowledged the request with a wave. Then he tossed Hart's shirt at him and said, "Come on. Let's not waste time."

John sighed, but he pulled his shirt on and his jacket after it, and joined Sherlock for the jump to Torchwood.

Ianto had coffee waiting as usual, and Gwen eagerly pulled Sherlock aside to show him something she'd discovered in the archives.

"How's it going?" Jack asked John.

John knew he wasn't just offering a social nicety. "No kisses yet," he answered bluntly.

Jack smiled. "You know... you're doing exactly what you said you wouldn't do."

"What's that?"

"You said you wouldn't love Sherlock if he didn't love you back."

John turned his face away, but he knew it was too late. Jack knew him too well. "Yeah... s'pose I am. But don't worry. I won't come running to you for comfort sex."

"Good. I might give comfort. But not sex."

"And maybe an 'I told you so'?"

"Nah. Overkill."

"Yeah." John waited for the awkward moment to pass.

"You are at least _trying_ to be careful, right?"

"Yes, yes. Come on, what are we working on today?"

To John's relief, Jack let it go. "Still no rift activity. But that doesn't mean there isn't plenty to do."

X X X

Jim hadn't made just one version of the video. _That was just the director's cut,_ Jim thought to himself as he put in Version Two for the benefit of himself and his guest. Version Two had been carefully edited so that no faces were shown, and no names were audible.

"You don't usually watch the pornography," Suzette commented.

"This is special."

"The paler one, he seems very young."

"Inexperienced," Jim acknowledged. "That's half of his charm." He moved his hands over her bare shoulders, pushing down the ruffled straps that hung over her upper arms.

"I thought you appreciated good experience," Suzette teased in a pouting voice.

"I'm a well-rounded fellow."

"Indeed, you are." Suzette smiled coyly and fondled Jim's backside.

"Already being naughty," Jim scolded. He expertly unfastened the lacing at the back of her dress and slid the front down to rest his hands on her warm breasts. "Have I ever mentioned, my dear, that I think you have the most perfectly sized and shaped bosom of any woman I've ever known?"

"High praise." Suzette caressed his neck and laid a kiss on his mouth.

"Yes. Not huge and saggy, not small and unsatisfying. Just exactly right."

"I'm honored to please you."

He reclined her on the bed and kissed his way over her chest. "Keep your eyes on that screen, love. This show's for you, you know." When he was with a woman, the thought of homosexual activity did nothing to aid Jim's arousal, but he knew it would arouse Suzette. He saw a sheen of lust growing in her eyes as she watched the scene unfold.

Little by little, they shed their clothes and became more and more entangled. There was no interruption, no stopping for a condom. Suzette was the one whore in the world that had earned Jim's trust to this extent. Every time she arrived at the _Taureau_, Suzette subjected herself to the staff's careful testing to be sure she was still free of communicable disease. She requested no such precaution from Jim, knowing very well how careful he was.

Still, as he was about to make entry, he saw something else in her eyes—like the look Colt had sometimes when Jim explained tactics. A look that said, "Excellent as this is, I have another idea..."

"What is it?" he asked softly, so as not to spoil the mood.

She smiled at him and sat up slowly, her loose blonde curls shimmering around her. She slipped off the edge of the bed and trailed her hands down Jim's back and over his hips. "I thought, since you're so fond of them, I could use my breasts to pleasure you?"

"What a lovely idea."

Jim feasted his eyes on her as she knelt and surrounded him with her bosom, from time to time leaning in to tease him with her tongue and slipping her fingers up to fondle his balls. He felt a wave of heat roll over him and he began to thrust forward, pressing his penis against her chest.

"It's good?" she asked.

"It's beautiful. Don't stop for a moment."

Suzette renewed her efforts and Jim thrust harder. He stroked her breasts and ran his thumbs over her nipples, extracting a provocative moan from her. Then he gripped her shoulders for stability, his legs hooked around her waist, and released his own quiet moan as his ejaculate sprayed over her chest.

"Oh, Jacques," Suzette said breathily. She took a moment to lick him clean. "You are the most powerful man I know... and I do this to you."

Jim took her by the arms and pulled her back onto the bed. "Incredible, isn't it?" He kissed her deeply and proceeded to lick the semen from her neck and chest. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Suzette. My English dom is gone and there's no other woman to compare with you."

"I should be sorry for you, but she made me terribly jealous," she confessed.

"There's no one for you to be jealous of now, except those two gentlemen." Jim indicated the screen where John and Sherlock were still moving and panting.

Suzette laughed. "Have them over here, and I will kindly share you with them both."

"You tempt me, _ma'moiselle." _He moved his mouth over her smooth body and down between her legs. Her breath became short and quick. He moved back up to straddle her, touching everywhere and sucking her nipples gently. The video reached its end and began again. Looking at the flushed, youthful face below him, Jim felt his hardness returning. "Come to me, my little one."

She arched her back as he entered her and eagerly matched his thrusting. She closed her eyes in ecstasy and encouraged him in French and English, losing her usual poise. "Ah, yes, Jacques! _De plus, chéri, _I need more!"

Jim laughed as he felt her tighten and tremble around him. He kissed her breathless lips and continued to thrust as she whimpered out her pleasure. He came for the second time and savored each fleeting moment before letting himself down on the bed beside her and scooping her against his chest. "Are you sated my dear?"

"Is that the same as satisfied?"

"Essentially."

"Yes, I am. Thank you."

"For the sex, or the English lesson?"

"Both, of course." She kissed his chest.

Jim fumbled around behind him and found the remote control to stop the video. "You're welcome to both. Now, I have a favor to ask."

X X X

Sherlock opened his newest text message. _It's your move._

Quickly, he punched in a reply: _No, I believe I took 1 of ur pawns._

The reply came moments later. _I castled._

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the creative and cryptic use of chess terminology. His phone buzzed again and he read, _+ I gave u that pawn._ The smirk grew to a grin. He sent: _Ddnt mean Hart._

"Good news?" asked John, approaching Sherlock at his workstation.

"We'll see. I think I've made some progress in Miss Sato's computer, but there are many layers of information. I have to practically learn a new language to get through a single layer. I wish I could have met her before she died. I'm sure her intelligence was barely tapped here."

Apparently having overheard the comment, Jack coughed loudly. Sherlock ignored it.

"I meant news on your phone."

"Yes... I think Moriarty is getting impatient for another round of play. I'm trying to get him to admit that he was behind the Straw kidnapping. Though I'm sure he'll never do so outright..." Sherlock stopped abruptly. He'd received another text.

_U took another turn?_

"He's being cagey now." Sherlock's thumbs flew over the keys. _I refer 2 the global crisis._

John read over Sherlock's shoulder. "He certainly loves his games."

_U blame evrythng on me. Grasping straws, Sherlock._

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed. "There it is. The global crisis was the threat of alien invasion, not necessarily the Chancellor's kidnapping. But he knows they're the same incident. I knew I was right."

"You're always right." John shrugged. "Doesn't really help us, does it? He obviously doesn't mind that you know."

"If anyone knows where Eli Davies is hiding, he does. And if Moriarty has a safe house in France..."

"Ah, you think he's moved Davies there, or at least helped him out of the country?"

"I'm sure of it. If he were still in England we should have found some trace of him by now."

"You need me to go back, then?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and turned his phone over in one hand. "I don't relish sending you back into such danger, but it is the best chance of locating Davies."

"I understand."

"There's no point in trying to bug you again..."

"No. I'd have to give it away. Pointless."

"We'd have no way to communicate."

"There is a shot," Jack said, coming up just then. He held out a small plastic case. "Iris cam. We've tested it. Would Moriarty notice if you were wearing contacts?"

John took the case and opened it to look at the minuscule lenses. "Maybe not. Guess it depends on whether or not they irritate my eyes."

"We've made a couple of sizes. Why don't you try these on?"

"Worth a try, I s'pose." John headed for the bathroom to make use of the mirror.

"He doesn't seem too keen on the idea," Jack said.

"Maybe he's worried about being able to keep it from Moriarty," Sherlock suggested. "It seems he didn't try to hide the bug or homing device before."

"Think this might prompt him to do something crazy if he finds out?"

"There really is no telling. I don't like the idea of sending him back with no means of contact, but... if he does somehow find out, it could be very difficult for John to keep whatever trust he's gained. He could get into very deep trouble very quickly."

"If we know where he is, the vortex manipulator can take us to him at a moment's notice."

"Yes, but at what cost? You run an excellent command here, but if you had a shootout with Moriarty's men on his own territory, I have no doubt that you would lose."

"We could always send one person in to grab John and jump out again."

"Then our advantage of keeping the teleportation a secret would be lost. If Moriarty learns we have a tool like that... I can only imagine what lengths he'll go to to get it." Sherlock looked at Jack appraisingly. "You don't have to help us with this, you know. Torchwood isn't really involved anymore..."

"You're part of Torchwood. If I can help keep you two safe, I will."

John returned then. "Well, what do you think? Can you tell?"

Sherlock stood and placed himself directly in front of John. He moved his head around, looking at John's eyes from different angles. "There is something off about them, but I probably wouldn't notice if I weren't looking for it."

"Probably?"

"Better not put them in until right before you're ready to go," Jack advised. "You might have to leave them in a long time."

"If Moriarty did notice," said Sherlock, "what would you tell him?"

"Suppose I'd tell him I often wear contacts and just hadn't bothered with them when I saw him last. If he figured out what they really were, I guess I'd say I couldn't let him know about them because you'd realize I'd given the game away on purpose." John shrugged. "That'd probably work. Probably keep me alive, anyway."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know. But I think it's worth the risk. If I can learn something about Davies's whereabouts, the sooner I can let you know about it the better. And if something happens to me, you should have some warning this way."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "We should act quickly, then. You'll need something interesting to tell Moriarty when you get back to him."

"I can tell him I'm getting closer to you; that we had a date. That will please him."

"Probably. But remember, the closer you are to me, the more tempted he will be to use you against me. To hurt you to hurt me."

"Least of my worries. Bring it."

Jack rolled his eyes. "When are you going to learn to take stuff seriously?"

"Tomorrow morning you should head back to your flat," Sherlock went on. "If you make it that far you can relax a while, get yourself ready to go. After an hour or so, walk around town where you know he can find you easily."

"Shouldn't you wait until Moriarty asks for him? He'll know you sent him back deliberately."

"We can't. Davies may already be well beyond Calais. We have to find him as soon as possible. Until then, our rescue of the chancellor is not complete."

"Don't worry about me," John said confidently. "I've never gotten into trouble that killed me yet, and that's a track record you can't boast of."

Sherlock frowned at the two, wondering what that was supposed to mean. But as neither captain seemed likely to explain the comment, he sat at Tosh's desk again and sent another text. _U were wrong._

He didn't have to wait long for the reply. Rly?_ bout wut?_

_Monopoly._

_U thnk so?_

_Risk._

_I concede._

Smiling grimly, Sherlock put his phone away.

X X X

"I know my opinion doesn't matter to either of you," Watson said pointedly, "but I strongly oppose Hart going back to Moriarty."

"We understand the risk," Sherlock said, plucking at his violin strings as he adjusted the pegs. "What we stand to gain is worth the risk."

"But you just... you just started dating."

"The timing is unfortunate. But also somewhat instrumental."

"What do you mean by that?"

John lounged back on the sofa. "He means that all the unusual circumstances of late have sort of brought us together. Whereas if things had been dull and safe, we might have remained distant."

"Things weren't exactly dull and safe before," Watson muttered. "But _we_ never went on a date."

Sherlock tucked the violin under his chin and played a few notes.

"You're not going to be up late playing that, are you?"

"Possibly. Moriarty will be especially wary if I send John back to his flat tonight. Best wait until morning. But there's nothing to do until then."

"Oh, really? You could always—I dunno... _sleep?!"_

"Or eat some dinner," John suggested. "I'm famished. Got anything in, Whats-up?"

Watson opened his mouth, but didn't speak at first. Finally he said, "Whatever. Help yourself. I'm going to bed. Try not to be too loud. Please." He headed for his room.

John found a tin of kippers in the kitchen and set about frying them. "Fancy a kipper, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused his playing long enough to answer, "No, thank you."

"You haven't eaten since last night. It won't hurt you to eat now, when nothing's happening."

"I'm not done thinking things over. We may have decided prematurely..."

"Well, like you said, we can't afford to wait. Come on; have something to eat and we'll get some rest."

Reluctantly, Sherlock put the violin away and joined John in the kitchen. "Here, I think we've got some onions... may as well put some of those in as well."

"You like to fry onions?"

"It's amazing the things you discover as a bi-product of not bothering to shop often."

John laughed. "Sounds all right; bring on the onions."

Before long, they had a mass of edibles which they sat down to share. Sherlock found it gratifying that John liked the fried onions more than the kippers.

"This is great," John said. "Got anything to drink?"

"Water. I think John may have some beer in the icebox."

"Will he mind?"

"I don't know. Better to ask after it's too late."

John found a bottle and pried the top off on a drawer handle, not being able to locate a bottle opener. "You want some? It'll help you relax and get to sleep."

"I don't want to relax. If I do sleep, I want my subconscious to be hard at work."

"Suit yourself."

Sherlock ate enough to take the edge off his hunger and watched John finish the rest. He watched the beer disappear, and then John seemed ready to sleep.

"Am I on the couch again?" John asked.

Sherlock considered the sleeping arrangements, silently cursing himself for clouding his thinking with food. "That would probably be fine... but just in case, you'd better stay in my room."

"In case... what?"

"In case I think of something in the night, or in case of an intruder."

"What, you mean together?"

"Yes. Both of us. In my room." Sherlock fought to maintain some patience. He knew John's mind was probably happily paddling around in the gutter about then, but he wasn't in the mood for such nonsense. "I trust you can control yourself for one night?"

"Yeah... sure, that's fine."

So, that was that. Sherlock brushed his teeth and went to bed in a pair of blue plaid pajama pants and soon John joined him in his tee shirt and shorts.

"Good night," John said, and Sherlock echoed him. But a moment later, John broke the silence. "Sherlock? I wanted to say thanks... for putting me up, and... well, for _putting up_ with me and all."

"That's all right. Please just get as much sleep as you can."

"Okay. Well... good night. I love you."

Sherlock didn't answer. _Love,_ he thought. _Can he really mean that? Even if he does, can I risk believing it?_ He rolled onto his side and tried to shut his mind down enough to doze. He was more tired than he realized, and next thing he knew, it was morning.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. ^^ Please leave a review to encourage me to write again soon. It really helps!_


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